Not a Spark, But a Burn
by Iceagesurvivor123
Summary: Stiles was supposed to be exorcising a demon, okay? He does not have time for being pinned to the wall by Laura freaking Hale. OR that fic where Stiles is sent back in time and decides to be a meddler.
1. Chapter 1

Stiles isn't even able to catch his breath before he's being slammed against a locker. He didn't even have time to process why he was in school, during summer, in the middle of the day, before a blurred shape ran down the hall like a banshee and attacked him.

Stiles instantly recognizes her as Laura Hale, from a picture that he found Derek crying over three months ago, and instead of wondering how the fuck she's even alive, let alone in a high school, he can't help but get mad at Derek because, really, he could have at least attempted to tell him a story or two about his sister other than mentioning she was the old Alpha.

Did every Alpha come back to life after they died or is it just a Hale thing?

She presses him up against the lockers as soon as she reaches him and while it's not nearly as emasculating as when Erica beat him with his starter, it still makes him wave his hands in the space between them and groan obnoxiously. Stiles whines about the feeling of his naked upper torso against the cold lockers, the fresh stinging of his wounds.

He's reminded so much of Derek when he sees her crystal blue eyes drilling holes into his, and the slight tips of elongated fangs poking out from her lips, that he decides it's better to try to assess the situation instead of begging for his life.

But, really? Why is Laura Hale so intent on murdering him in a school hallway? He looks down at himself, and wonders if he's not beat up enough for her to consider leaving alone.

The main difference is that Derek is always just trying to intimidate him, but Laura looks well prepared to actually _rip his throat out. _The thought makes Stiles gulp and go slack in her grip, trying to appear as least threatening as possible.

Eye contact. He remembers the rule about eye contact well and quickly steels his gaze to the wall behind her, where he gapes at a sign. His gut twist like a washing machine as his eyes roam over it again and again because no.

There was no way that sign was congratulating the class of 2007 on graduating soon.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

Laura snarls at him, as quiet as she can to still be threatening, and presses him harder into the unforgiving metal. Stiles' shoulder is digging into a locker, and he winces at the thought of another future bruise that is sure to form.

"Who. Are. You?" She growls at him. He can feel the small pricks of her very werewolfy claws against his neck and he's eerily reminded of the Kanima slicing people into paralysis. He would really love to answer her, but he's a bit busy having an existential crisis over the possibility trying to take home in his head.

There's no way that demon transported him back in time six years. If Stiles was Scott, he would have denied denied denied, but the logic is almost too flawless. He has freaking Laura Hale in front of him, pressing him into a locker, for fucks sake. There really isn't any room for denial right now, so he tries to roll with it as best as he can.

As best as he can apparently isn't good enough for Laura, because she presses a single claw into his exposed shoulder. He manages to flinch away from her and it sends his heart slamming against his rib cage as it makes her dig harder into his muscle. What's one more open wound compared to realizing he's six years in the past though, right? He looks down, letting out a huff of relief when he sees that she didn't scratch at his scars.

Flinching away exposes his neck more, though, and by her pleased expression he can't tell if it was the right move or not. Isaac would always bare his throat to Derek if he was being reprimanded, but that was towards his Alpha. Stiles internally listed the pro's and con's of submitting to Laura Hale, of all people, and decides that he really isn't in any position to question her dominance over him right now anyway.

Especially when she tightens her grip on his neck and looks positively delighted as he hisses against the feeling.

Laura Hale is a girl who enjoys her power trips. Noted.

Her eyes narrow as more seconds tick by and her features are rapidly shifting into something way less human and Stiles yelps as she crowds closer to him, "Stiles. Ugh, fuck! Please don't kill me, please, I really have no idea what's going on and-" Stiles sputters and flails as she presses her face closer to his throat and her nostrils flair like Derek's anytime Scott came to a pack meeting after being with Allison, "-can you not smell me right now, Jesus! I know you werewolves get off on that kind of thing but seriously?! Show some decorum. We are in a public-"

Laura relaxes her grip on him but manages to look pissed as opposed to her angry curiosity before. Stiles wonders if it's bad form to pee himself when being interrogated by a scary werewolf.

"You smell like my brother," She hisses, and it's almost a snarl by the way she flashes her fangs at him, "Why?"

Stiles can answer this question, technically, but he would really rather not explain to Laura that he's from six years in the future and he and her brother and kinda sorta friends who work together a lot and spend Sunday mornings eating cereal and discussing new training strategies and save each others lives if it's convenient. Stiles challenges Hallmark to make a card for that awkward situation, but that's an email that'll have to be written later since Laura's, now thankfully human, nails are digging into his neck and dragging him out the front door of the school, one hand typing rapidly on a flip phone.

He wonders briefly if the man-handling is also werewolf thing or a Hale thing, but doesn't have a lot of time to think about it with Laura forcing him into the front seat of a suspiciously familiar Camaro. She manages to do this all one handed while still typing away on her phone; a feat that Stiles is truly impressed by because he remembers 2007 and texting on a Razor sucked ass no matter what freaky werewolf superpowers you had.

She snaps her phone shut loudly as she settles into the drivers side and doesn't even bother with the seat belt. Stiles does, because he remembers Derek's driving and is still finding little to no differences between the brash Hales.

She growls lowly at him when he opens his mouth to ask where she's taking him, because it's only common courtesy to warn someone before you drop their mutilated body in a river bank, so he takes the drive to pinch the soft skin of his underarm and hopes to wake up from whatever nightmare he prays he's in, and then, when the skin turns an angry red and it's apparent he won't be waking up any time soon, he picks at the dried blood covering the skin of his torso. He remembers ripping his shirt off of him, remembers pressing it into Scott's side and shouting at Boyd to watch out.

Stiles can still hear his screams and Allison's gasping breaths as she sobbed over him. Hunters could lace almost anything with wolfs bane, apparently, and the pure silver of the knife had glinted dangerously in the moonlight once the demon stole it off of Chris' body. He shivers uncomfortably as he remembers the black shape, It's mouth just a gaping maw as it taunted and teetered dangerously around his pack.

Laura smirks as she scents the air, "I'm not going to kill you, if that's what your afraid of."

Stiles doesn't correct her, doesn't tell her that his fear is mostly from the nauseousness that swirls in his gut, from still feeling the black abyss press into his back, the thousand knives jamming into his sides, the fire that burned in his very soul as his own spark was used against him. He lets her think she's a big, bad, scary werewolf and doesn't tell her that he can still feel the weight of his vial of mountain ash in his pocket, that he can shield himself from her in a few seconds if he needs to.

She can go on thinking he's just a suspicious human who smells a bit too much like her brother, five other wolves, and blood. Stiles somehow keeps his mouth snapped shut, too busy recounting the events that had just occurred five minutes ago.

Fuck, how had it all gone so wrong?

They had him, _they fucking had him!_ It was trapped in the circle that Stiles meticulously slaved over for two days, It was doused with holy water, and It had sat there and shivered and burned against the words that Stiles and Lydia hurled at him, the words they stayed up night after night practicing over skype.

But Stiles can still remember Its smirk as they finished, the sharp fangs as It laughed harshly before brutally attacking them all. And when It saw the marks on Stiles; the shapes Deaton had carefully carved into the skin of his shoulders, his rib cage, and his hips? It practically giggled with glee.

Stiles presses his face into the cool window, letting his breath create puffy clouds on the surface. He can almost hear Derek growling at him to stop, that he could scratch them, but he ignores the voice in his head.

Laura isn't as protective of her car, or she's just too busy replying the to the flood of text messages she received as soon as they left the parking lot. Her phone is a barge of _ting!_s and Stiles is two seconds away from grabbing her phone and throwing it out the window.

He side eyes her and decides that would just make him an even bigger target of her anger and decides the phone will remain intact for another day.

It takes him two minutes longer than he would have liked for it to to realize that Laura is taking him back to the Hale house. Stiles isn't comforted by this, not like he would be if he was driving his jeep with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac squished in the back, Erica snarking him every which way about any asinine topic that pops into her head, with Scott to his side, rolling his eyes at their banter.

He's not being taken to his Alpha, isn't going to be able to pop into the renovated kitchen and mutter about movie options while pulling out supplies for waffles or lasagna or whatever he was making that night, isn't going to laugh while Derek completely dominates the wolves in training matches, isn't going to have the comfort and safety of his pack. He's literally being dragged into a wolf den, reeking of another pack and their son.

Stiles uses the rest of the drive to reconsider any and all life choices he made that lead him to this point in time. He absently runs his right hand over his left side, using his fingers to trace the swirls and circles and diamonds of the scar, feeling the smooth, fake looking, pink flesh under his palm. It calms him, grounds him to the situation, reminds him that this is real.

The last thing he remembers is the demon tracing the pattern with Its featherlight touch while it held him in an unbreakable hold. It ran Its hand from his right shoulder, across to his left, and down to where it ended just above his hip. It had said something in Its deep voice, the one that just made him feel queasy and so so so wrong. What had It said though? Stiles was too busy struggling, too busy listening to the cries of Allison and the roar of anger from Erica, too busy trying to remember the last thing he said to his father because if he was dying he wanted to make sure it wasn't something stupid like promising to take the trash out.

Laura pulls up to the Hale house and Stiles really wonders why Derek didn't correct how many of the details they got wrong in the rebuild. They didn't even paint it the right color. Like, come on. He blinks and there's suddenly four other people on the porch.

Werewolves, he reminds himself, and these ones will kill him if they think he's a threat to their pack. Stiles remembers Derek's eyes flashing as a feral omega cornered Lydia, remembers his ferocious growl when Danny showed up to the house when Stiles and Allison were locking everyone up for a full moon, remembers the swift and unrelenting tug that called to him anytime someone got too close to them, remembers the need and desire to protect his family and his pack.

He doesn't have a pack though, not here, not in 2007. His pack is down the street at school, blissfully unaware of werewolves and hunters, or at the police station, pouring themselves too hard into their work, or in San Diego, wishing they could just settle down. He's alone, and it hurts worse than the pain in the deep cut on his thigh.

Stiles decides he's way too emotionally drained for pack politics and ignores Laura's warning snarl as he gets out of the car.

"Look," he starts, eyes sliding over Derek's family and settling directly on the woman he suspects to be his mother. She's tall, and holds herself exactly as Peter did when he was an Alpha, except she doesn't exude an air of murderous psychopath. Her eyes flash red as she scents the air, and Stiles lightly lifts his chin, in submission- not defiance, but keeps his eyes trained on hers. His knees want to buckle under the weight of her gaze, and he's suddenly reminded how many bruises are on his skin and how many open wounds he's currently letting get infected and sighs, "twenty minutes ago, my best friend was bleeding out on me and I had to watch half of my pack die because_ I _obviously fucked up somehow. If you're going to kill me, can you at least let me sit down on a fucking couch first."


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles doesn't get the couch. He doesn't get that comfy looking arm chair, either, or even the option to just fall on that soft plush carpet and sleep for five years. Stiles hates the foreign feeling as he's shuffled through the house, like he's looking at a completely different model of the home he spends more time at than his own. He's herded directly past the living room, the kitchen, and is pulled to a full stop in the dining room.

Which is where he promptly collapses into a pulled out chair and fights every urge in his body screaming to rest his head on the surface of the table and pass out. He has a few seconds to consider making a graph depicting the extreme differences between human healing and werewolf super healing powers, because really, does no one care for the helpless human bleeding all over himself, before a few older Hales are shuffling to sit in the chairs around him.

Laura and a few others decide to hold up the wall, and Stiles wonders if it's a pack hierarchy thing.

"So, you're either a human, or those are from your Alpha."

Stiles can't even tell which Hale felt like starting the interrogation, and sighs, too tired to even try to put in the effort of a lie or snark, "I'm a human."

There's a nod from Talia Hale and she points to a boy standing close to Laura, "Call Deaton," she orders, and the boy nods briskly before disappearing into the kitchen.

Stiles feels like he might throw up, the nauseous feeling that had been swirling in his gut seems to have increased since stepping foot in the house. He doesn't want to be here. Every time he even looks in Laura's direction, his head starts pounding and he can't stop seeing half of her body in a hole. Stiles just wants to lie down, to catalog his injuries and have Lydia or Allison patch him up, to have Isaac and Scott sit beside him and take his pain away, to have Erica bring him snacks and juice and for Boyd to scoff at him for playing up his pain.

What's worse, Stiles decides, is that he even wishes Derek was here to chide him for being so idiotic and getting hurt. He just wants his pack back, he wants his family and his friends to crowd around him and make sure he's safe. He wants the feeling that comes whenever they're in the same room, the protection, the belonging.

He's an outsider here, and it physically hurts.

Of course, the physical pain could be the cuts in his side and his thigh, which seem to have stopped bleeding, and the purple bruise blooming on his right side. He knows he got out of the battle relatively unscathed compared to the others, but the mental anguish of knowing he forcibly abandoned his pack in the midst of battle hurts way too deep.

Stiles groans, resting his head on his forearms and breathing on the surface. A hand drops lightly on his head, rubbing soothingly. Stiles has felt his pain being drawn before. It's not a new thing to him, since when Deaton taught Scott he could do it Stiles spent the next day jabbing himself with thumbtacks and whining at Scott to practice.

Stiles peaks out from his cave and sees Talia with her mouth drawn in a tight line as she stares at him, her eyes flashing red as her nostrils flare. Stiles knows she's smelling him, smelling the blood and sweat and pack that has probably permeated into his very being by now. He's not afraid, though, not really. Stiles has heard far too many stories about Talia from Derek, Deaton, his own dad, and even Christ Argent.

Talia Hale is an amazing Alpha, and an even more amazing person. She wouldn't hurt Stiles, especially not when he's so obviously not prepared to defend himself, especially when he smells like her son.

The rest of the Hales don't seem as forgiving as their Alpha, though, so Stiles tries to keep calm and smell of anything but prey.

"Where's Derek?" Talia asks, finally taking her eyes away from Stiles', and he follows the direction she's staring at in hope of an answer. Her eyes aren't red anymore, but back to that hazel color that Derek has. It's so familiar, the flash of red to hazel, that Stiles feels the ache in his chest grow bigger.

"Swim practice," A young girl pipes up from where Laura's standing, and adds, "He said they have a meet this weekend and he can't miss practice." Her dark hair is up in curled pig tails and she's missing a front tooth, and Stiles thinks she's probably Cora. He doesn't think Derek has any other sisters, but leaves a margin for error.

It's not like Derek was the most talkative guy about his traumatic past.

Talia nods and Peter, Stiles represses the shudder that zings through him at the sight of the macabre villain, peaks his head out from the line of other adult Hales and stares at Stiles, "Do you think you could, perhaps, manage to tell us exactly why you're shirtless," not that Peter looks that concerned with Stiles' lack of shirt, creep, "Covered in blood and practically dying on our dining table?"

"And why you smell like Derek!" Laura adds, eyes flashing at Stiles.

Stiles just rolls his eyes at her, not at all threatened by the display. At least Laura's a born werewolf _and_ fully submitted to an Alpha. Isaac and Erica were way more terrifying before Derek got them under control. Stiles is careful not to blurt out that information, though. Supernatural creatures have fragile egos and he feels like he's already half dead, so. Don't wanna make it an easy kill for her.

Stiles opens his mouth to answer Peter, not that he really knows what would have stumbled out, when the front door opens and he hears the sound of Deaton talking to the boy who left the room earlier. He turns around the corner, not looking any different from when Stiles saw him last week, and pauses as he takes him in.

He's sure he's quite the sight, what with werewolf and human blood over him, the aforementioned bruise and cuts, and his scars that Deaton himself put on him, so he doesn't mind that the vet needs a few seconds to collect himself. Stiles is sure he'd need the same if he was in his predicament.

"'Sup?" Stiles waves with a smack of his lips.

That seems to shock Deaton out of his reverie and he's instantly hustling his way around the werewolves to kneel in front of Stiles. He scoots his chair out to give the good doctor some room to work, because there was no way the family of freakishly healing werewolves were going to know that he needed space to work his doctor magic, and hisses as it pulls at the cut on his side.

Now that he gets a better look at it, though, Stiles is upgrading that particular cut to a gash and that's that.

"That's not going to interfere with my tats, right?" Stiles asks, looking worriedly at the way it slices between the rune, he promises himself later he'll laugh at the fact that it's his only protection ward, on his ribs. If it does, Stiles is going to be pissed because that one hurt like a bitch to get and he manfully cried the entire two hours it took to carve it in.

Deaton looks at him in a cross between awe and worry, his fingers gently poking at the raised skin, "I'm afraid it cut it off completely," Deaton says, gesturing to the spot where the gash cut into the rune, "It's too precise to be on accident. It's the only weak point in that particular ward and it's almost impossible to hit. Whomever did this definitely knew what they were doing."

Stiles nods, accepting that easily and is decidedly too tired to make a fuss about it. He knows all about his wards and runes and patterns. He had poured himself over books, ordered from some pretty shady websites, for three months before finally going to Deaton with his designs.

"Which," Peter catches Stiles' attention again, "Calls the question again: What _were_ you doing?"

Stiles sighs, because honestly? What is he supposed to say? He's in a room full of lie detectors just waiting for a reason to tear him apart and he's in no condition to attempt to talk his way out of this. To be honest, he's still freaking out about the whole _6 years in the past thing_ and is probably just a tad bit woozy from blood loss and, oh yeah, did he mention the time travel?

The time travel thing is pretty important on his list of major concerns, he decides.

A man sitting directly next to Talia, who has Derek's perfect jaw, Stiles notes, recalls, "You mentioned something about "fucking up" and your pack _dying_?"

Stiles chuckles a bit before immediately cutting himself off when, ow, ribs, "Uh, yeah, not really my best opening line?"

Someone snorts. Stiles thinks it's nice that at least someone appreciates him.

He awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck, "Look, I'm, um, I'm-"

Stiles sighs. If it sounds stupid to him, when the fucking evidence is right in front of his face, then there's no way anyone is going to believe him. He should just leave. He should just get up and hobble to some ditch and just lay down and die because nothing makes sense anymore.

Of course, that's what Stiles would do if he was smart and not on the verge of keeling over and vomiting over Deaton's nice looking shoes. In reality, or whatever fever dream he's in, Stiles reaches up and grabs the wrist of Talia. There's a snarl somewhere behind him, but Stiles pays it on mind as he promptly brings her hand to his jugular to feel his pulse. She can rip his throat out right now, if she really wanted to. Stiles knows this. He looks directly into her eyes, and Stiles knows that Talia knows that he knows this.

He knows what position he's putting himself in right now, willingly, and Talia nods, prepared to accept what he's about to say.

"I'm from the future."

Silence.

Complete. And total. Silence.

The hand stays firmly on his throat, but there's no sudden claw growth and he's not dead so Stiles thinks this is a good sign. Everyone is frozen and staring at him like he might be the next messiah or something, though, so he's not too sure if his opinion on the matter is valid.

"Well," Laura pipes up after an entire two minutes passed, "He's not lying."

Talia keeps her palm on his throat but it's more relaxed, and her veins are still black from stealing his pain and Stiles almost sags in relief. It's like a weight has been lifted off of him because they believe him and he's not going to die yet. She moves her hand in a gesture for Stiles to continue with his story and so he does.

He tells them almost everything while Deaton works on fixing him; the Hale fire, but not how because he's sure that if he rats out Derek's crush Laura will fly at him for besmirching his name, looking for the dead body (he omits that it's Laura's), Scott getting bit, meeting Derek in the woods, looking for the Alpha, finding the Alpha (omitting that it's Peter), Derek becoming the Alpha, Talia's grip tightens at that, but Stiles thinks it's more out of concern than anger so he barrels on, the Kanima, the beta's, Gerard, the alliance with the hunters, the Alpha pack, the rebuild, the Succubus, the elves, the goblins, the giant spiders, the vampires, the omega's, the mountain troll, the magic, and it went on and on until Stiles' throat went dry and Cora brought him a glass of water.

"-and then I yelled at Isaac to watch out and the demon decided I'd be much more fun to toy with and he grabbed me and lifted me away from Scott and touched me here," he touches his shoulder and drags it over to his hip, "and he said something but there was too much noise going on and I'm not even sure if it was English and then Laura had me against the lockers and now I'm here."

There's a small murmur throughout the crowd and the older wolves turn to Deaton who finished fixing Stiles up around his Succubus adventures and had backed himself up against a free wall. Deaton clears his throat and places a hand on his chin contemplatively, "Theoretically, it's possible. I've never heard of someone doing it, but you do have an excessive amount of runes on you," That is definitely a judging look, "I would have to study them further to see if that is what caused you to end up here."

Stiles simply nods because it's what he would have suggested anyway. When they went about putting the runes on Deaton never mentioned any adverse effects like magical demons deciding to send him six years in the past but he can't really hold the grudge, since his Deaton isn't even here to hold a grudge to and he already knows that the vet liked to stay out of Supernatural stuff as much as he could despite being the go to guy for a pack of werewolves.

Stiles jumps as Deaton rest a hand on his shoulder and traces a spiral and zig zag that runs down his left shoulder and around his bicep, whispering "_inlusio_" with a look. Stiles feels... nothing.

He glares at his arm because that's definitely not what's supposed to happen. His deception rune is supposed to make him slightly blurry, just enough for eyes to pass over him and let him sneak around without being detected. It also makes him feel like he's covered in a layer lukewarm water, which he knows for sure because he just used it the other day to break into his dad's filing cabinet.

Deaton sighs and it sounds far too tired for a goddamn vet to use, "I think this demon used up whatever magic had been stored in the runes."

And that's definitely enough to piss him off because Stiles spent a year getting these done. He quit lacrosse so people wouldn't see the scarification process and think he was mutilating himself. He spent countless of dollars that could have been used to fix up his piece of crap Jeep on buying those moldy old books and paying Deaton. He even had to change his entire sleeping position because sleeping on his back was not good for the healing process.

Stiles can feel it coming on and he quickly pushes it down. No. He is not having a panic attack in a house full of werewolves. He refuses to, but his throat is already tightening and his breathes are shuttering and he thinks his hands are shaking.

"But, if using the runes got me here, then does that mean..." Stiles trails off, too afraid to consider the possibility.

Because if the demon sapped all of the magic using the runes to send him here, then that meant there wasn't any left to go back.

And Stiles needs to believe he can go back.

Deaton nods though, and that's all Stiles needs to know before his chest tights and and his eyes sting and his throat closes up and fuck fuck fuck he can't breathe and his eyes clench tight and his hands are balled into fist and someone's forcing his head down and he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't-

Deaton's in front of him, hands on his shoulders and he's holding Stiles, "We'll figure this out, Stiles. I promise you, we'll get to the bottom of this."

Stiles doesn't believe him in the slightest, because he's Deaton and after a few years it's really hard to trust Deaton without a grain of salt, but it calms him down for the most part. His hands are still shaking but he can breathe again and that's always a step in the right direction.

"Stiles is going to stay with me until we figure a few things out," Deaton says, not taking his eyes off of Stiles

Talia nods, eying Stiles like he might keel over and die at any second, which is a real possibility right now, "Yes, I think that would be best."

"And your pack isn't going to harass him about what happened here tonight." Deaton orders.

Laura bristles out of the corner of Stiles' eye but she really isn't his highest concern right now. He's too busy watching Deaton, who has a hand wrapped protectively around Stiles' wrist, stare at Talia like a cobra waiting to strike until she gives in and relents, "Just until he's healthy again. The things he told us were... troubling, you have to admit, Deaton."

Stiles really doesn't like the sound of being bombarded by Hales, healthy or not, but he'll take whatever reprieve he can get and Deaton seems to feel the same way. He pulls Stiles up and guides him past the werewolves who look... nervous? Stiles can't name the expression on their face, but doesn't concern himself with it. Talia is right, Stiles did drop quite a few knowledge bombs on them in the span of two hours. If someone randomly appeared from the future and told him he was going to die in a blaze of notglory he'd probably be biting his nails off and torturing them for information.

Okay, not torture, but he has a special brand of annoyance if his dad is any source to go by.

Deaton helps Stiles into his car, where he promptly rest his head against the window and closes his eyes feeling way too emotionally and physically exhausted to even consider being alive.


	3. Chapter 3

Deaton surprisingly doesn't live in the vet clinic.

Stiles makes a noise of surprise when Deaton parks his car along the curb outside of the apartment building, and Deaton just rolls his eyes when Stiles sputters out something about Scott saying that Deaton slept in a supply closet with a blanket of cats. Stiles thought it was a lie when Scott told him it years ago, but after Deaton was just always at the clinic whenever the pack needed him it was hard to believe he ever actually went home.

It's not even a small apartment. It's pretty big, with an open floor plan, and there's not even any voo doo magic stuff lying around. There's pictures on the walls of puppies for crying out loud. There's an open laptop with a desktop picture of Deaton a few other people, a newspaper left open on the counter with an empty bowl next to it, looking sad and neglected after someone rushed out of the house to patch up some kid who fell out of the sky, and a movie playing on the TV with the volume muted. It's bright too, with colorful walls, which is more surprising, as Stiles thought that a whole bunch of Gothic style furniture would be more up the good doctors street.

Whatever.

He toes off his mud slick shoes and leaves them by the door, not wanting to ruin Deaton's nice floors.

"I'm afraid I don't normally have guest," Deaton says, dropping his keys in a purple bowl near the door before sliding the dead bolt into place. "So you'll have to sleep on the pull out couch."

Stiles eyes him judgmentally and gestures to his everything. "You realize I'm on the brink of death, right?" He whines pathetically, clutching at his bruised side.

Deaton doesn't appreciate his whining like Erica would have, and just walks into the kitchen. Stiles follows and leans against the island, almost wanting to moan wantonly at how the cold marble feels against his bruised side. He keeps his mouth shut, though, sure that Deaton will toss him out on the street.

Stiles is pretty sure there's werewolves on the street, werewolves who want to ask him questions about their imminent demise, so, no thank you.

Deaton roams around in the cupboards for a few seconds before coming back with a rather large white pill. Stiles eyes it skeptically and Deaton just places it into his palm and gets him a glass of water, "It's an Ibuprofen. Relax."

"No freaky magics are at play here, right?" Stiles ask, just for lack of anything to say. He swallows the pill before Deaton can even answer.

"Oh no, there's plenty of 'freaky magics' at play here, Stiles," Deaton walks over to the fridge and opens the freezer, shifting around for a few seconds before reappearing with a bag of peas. Stiles doesn't appreciate how cold they look. "Not all of them are from me, though."

"Right."

Deaton wraps the peas in a paper towel and presses it to Stiles' side. Stiles yelps, "Jesus! Warn a guy!"

Deaton just raises his eyebrow mockingly and waits patiently for Stiles to take over the pea situation. Stiles does so and presses it tenderly to his side, wincing slightly. He doesn't even really remember how he got the bruise, to be honest. He thinks it might have been when he was thrown back when the demon broke the circle, still no actual clue how the hell that happened, but Stiles isn't exactly the king of knowing things right now so he mentally adds it to his list.

Stiles eyes Deaton suspiciously as he's bustling around, opening drawers and closets. He places two pillows and an afghan blanket on the couch. It looks scratchy and Stiles eyes it with distaste. Deaton gets to work and pulls out the couch, revealing a bed that looks barely big enough to hold two people that probably isn't comfortable at all.

Deaton comes back and guides Stiles by the elbow to the bed. Stiles lets him because either that Ibuprofen kicked in fast or his nap in the car didn't do anything to make him feel less like dead weight. He thinks it's a combination of both.

As he settles against the springy mattress, he was right, it's horrible, Deaton carefully pulls back the bandage covering his now useless protection ward. Stiles glares at it, like all of this mess is its fault. It probably is, knowing Stiles' luck.

"So," Deaton starts as he clicks open a small case and applies some disinfectant to a cotton swab, "Tell me exactly why I can only see one of these," he gestures to the ward, "Here?"

Stiles sighs, having heard the exact same question from both Deaton and Lydia. "I just didn't see the point," he mumbles, fidgeting as Deaton presses the cold swab to his side and drags it along his cut. He hisses a bit as it tugs the edges, "I mean, I was surrounded by werewolves for almost three years and I've only came close to dying like, twice? I figured getting more than one would, like, be a dare or something to the forces that be."

Deaton gives him a look and Stiles rolls his eyes, "Yeah, I know, blah blah blah. It's stupid. We've already had this discussion." Deaton quirks the corners of his lips up in what could be considered amusement and then sets to eying the cut with more skepticism.

"You hand picked this one, you know?" Stiles says, because the silence is unnerving and he can see Deaton looking at the needle and thread and he does not want to think about needing stitches, "I was going to go with a smaller one, and it totally worked in with this one," Stiles points to his Locks and Bindings rune, a neat trick that gets him out of handcuffs and ropes, that he moved to the inside of his left wrist because Deaton is a life ruiner and it was easier to touch when his hands where immobile, "But you promised this one was practically perfect."

The _you're a jerk it's all your fault I'm here I kinda hate you _goes unsaid.

Deaton smiles, "I did say 'practically', didn't I? Now hold still, You need stitches."

Stiles brings his hand up and catches himself right before he touches the rune on the back of his neck, the one that acts more like morphine than anything, "_Adflicto_" already on his tongue.

Deaton looks into his eyes, warm in their apology, and he smiles softly until Stiles is forced to look away, once again over come with the sudden feeling of loss that hits his body like ton of bricks. His eyes itch and he fights against the tears because he'll be damned if he starts crying over this.

He barks out a laugh, and it's a hollow sound that makes Deaton look away.

Stiles can't tell if he passes out from exhaustion or just falls asleep while Deaton's steady hands work over him, lost to the world as he counts each time the needle bites into his skin.

When Stiles wakes, he's in a bed he doesn't recognize, sweating under the weight of a thick blanket. He goes to stretch and a sharp pain cuts through his side that makes him wince, curling into a ball and pressing a hand against the stiff thread holding him together. _Oh_, he thinks, and then everything that happened yesterday seeps slowly through the cloud in his mind, _Right_.

His other side feels damp and cool, and when Stiles lifts the blanket he can see a melted bag sagging against a dark bruise. Stiles pokes at the bruise lightly, hissing at the rush of pain that strikes through his body.

Every muscle hurts like he's been working out nonstop for a week. His joints scream in pain when he finally pulls himself up and he stretches as much as he can without pulling at his stitches. His jeans slide uncomfortably against his legs and he feels itchy in his skin. Stiles makes a face at the bag of peas and hobbles over to the kitchen, leaving his sham of a bed unmade, to deposit them in the sink.

He really doesn't think they're salvageable at this point.

There's a note from Deaton on the counter saying that he had to run into work for a few hours and he'd be home at six or seven. There's instructions to take a shower, Stiles absently picks at the dried blood _still _on his abdomen as he reads and questions Deaton's morals for sending a severely traumatized eighteen year old to bed like this. Stiles considers if his mission back in time is to prevent Deaton from ever wanting to become a father, because obviously he'd be horrible at it and then his kids would trigger the apocalypse or something. It's likely. Stiles adds it to his list. The note says there's also some clothes on the coffee table, a look up confirms that, and a pass code to unlock a closet door.

Stiles decides that that's where all of the voo doo magic is kept. The urge to go through it without Deaton looking over his shoulder is almost too tempting, but, really, that blood is just getting distracting and Stiles is sure he's starting to smell so he sighs and hops in the shower.

And then promptly groans because wow, hot water is great for stress and whoever invented indoor plumbing is amazing and deserves every nice thing the universe has to offer. Stiles is almost certain the inventor probably died from poor hygiene before their plans were finalized, but alas, he hopes they have a nice party in heaven.

Deaton only has Old Spice and Stiles may or may not waste two minutes reenacting commercials where he's on a figurative horse, but he's been through a lot emotionally and totally deserves to make a fool of himself.

It hits Stiles then that he's in 2007 _and no one would get that joke if he made it_ and that thought just sends him on a downward spiral where he ends up clutching his knees in the shower and having a bit of an existential crisis.

After he pulls himself together, which takes half an hour, and finishes washing off, Stiles drops his bloody, torn jeans in the trash and puts on the red button down and cream cargo pants Deaton left out for him.

It's not a perfect fit but Stiles decides it's better than nothing.

His stomach growls obscenely and he remembers that he hasn't eaten in six years, no he doesn't laugh at himself, that would be childish and this is a very adult situation that needs to be handled maturely. Stiles does chuckle a bit, because he's a funny guy, and rifles through Deaton's pantry and fridge.

He finds some frozen waffles and heats them up in a toaster. While he's waiting for it to pop he roots in cupboards and drawers for a bowl and spoon and pours a bowl of cereal, a boring adult brand, because _six years_, he reminds himself, and eats it without feeling a smidgen of guilt. He also drinks some milk straight out of the carton as a fuck you to Deaton for leaving him unsupervised and possibly traumatized.

The possible trauma is a big thing here. Weren't magical past guides supposed to be _helpful_? Stiles considers that while he tries to salvage his burnt waffle and bathes in it butter and syrup.

He's in the middle of his third waffle when there's a knock on the door. Stiles freezes, dropping his fork to the counter with a clatter that is sure to alert whoever is outside that there's someone in here. Do Deaton's neighbors know he's here? What's he supposed to do if someone ask why he's here? What if they think he's a burglar? What if they think Deaton is propositioning young men for sex?

Stiles is wearing the guys clothes, after all, and Deaton is pretty shifty. It's not that big of a stretch.

There's another knock, this one harder than the last, and a sigh, "I know you're in there, Stiles!" a familiar voice coons, and then, in a softer, almost conspiratorial tone, "I can smell you."

"Laura Hale for creeper of the year award." Stiles mumbles to himself as he puts his dishes in the sink and abandons what's left of his waffle.

Laura's pouting when he opens the door, "I'm not that creepy, honest."

Stiles just raises an eyebrow at her, "Yesterday you _kidnapped me _and brought me to your little werewolf den to sacrifice me to the moon, or something."

Laura waves a hand in a graceful motion that would look like a flail if Stiles attempted it, "Details," she says with a smile, and tries to step forward only to meet a barrier.

Stiles grins and breathes, "Deaton, you beautiful bastard." He places his hand on the wooden frame of the door, smile widening as he feels the steady pulse of a mountain ash barrier.

"Bastard is one word for him," Laura mumbles and glares at the door like it personally offended her.

"Yep," he pops the 'p', then leans against the doorjamb with a smirk, "So, what are you doing here creepwolf? Deaton explicitly said no harassing the time traveling human. I heard him."

Laura gives him a blank look, "There's no _harassment_ going on here, Stiles."

Stiles guffaws, "Really?" he gestures to her standing as close to the door as the the barrier will let her, "What do you call this then?"

"It _was_ called me trying to apologize for yesterday." Laura growls, eyes flashing blue.

And Stiles just... He gapes, because what? Werewolves don't apologize. Stiles has extensive records and knowledge on the subject. Stiles has three years of personal experience on the matter. Werewolves are too stubborn, their supernatural egos are too big to ever admit they're wrong.

But then Stiles remembers Derek bringing him curly fries after Stiles was right and he hadn't listened, remembers Peter working his ass off to be apart of the pack and not letting anyone in die, remembers Jackson not pushing him against walls or calling him names and defending him against some assholes on the team, and he amends.

Werewolves never apologize with words.

"You- what?"

Laura growls again, but it's a completely normal human sound of frustration and her eyes are green, "I'm not saying it again," and Stiles gulps, because Laura must follow the werewolf apology protocol, and her coming here is probably a huge thing that Stiles can't even come to terms with since Laura's talking again, "Now, go get your shoes on. You're coming with me to pick up Derek from school."

"Um, no I'm not," Stiles says hastily, stepping backwards unconsciously into the safety of Deaton's apartment. The blood rushes in his ears and his heart speeds up and he crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively.

No, he's not ready to see Derek. _Sixteen year old Derek_ who probably isn't broody and grouchy and damaged. Derek who hasn't had to grieve over the loss of his entire family, who hasn't become the Alpha for a pack of misfit toys, who doesn't have to feel guilt every day like his Derek does.

Laura rolls her eyes, "Yes, you are. Come on, he's excited to meet you and mom says that seeing a familiar face will be good for you."

Stiles just stares at her suspiciously, "Right. I'm sure this isn't part of some long term plan to get me to tell you exactly _why_ your every family member died?"

Her eyes flash blue for a second at the mention of her family dying, and Stiles wonders just how much control Laura has. Derek definitely never flashed his wolf side around this much, neither did Scott. Stiles feels the urge to just prod her with a stick and see how long it takes her to shift and try to eat him.

"Don't be ridiculous," She says, waving her hand flippantly, like she hadn't almost wolfed out and attacked him, "It's just that Derek wasn't there yesterday for story time and sacrificing you to the moon gods and all," Laura gives him a look, "And he thinks we're all messing with his head. I just want him to get a whiff of you and then you can go back to avoiding us and letting us die, or whatever it is you plan on doing."

Stiles recoils like she hit him and shifts uneasily at the guilt that wraps around his throat, "It's not like I want you to die," he seethes, because honestly? He doesn't. Despite the kidnapping yesterday, the Hales all seem really nice, and it's not like he wants to cause Derek unnecessary pain, but, "It just happens that way, okay?"

Laura doesn't even act like she heard him, "Yeah, yeah, whatever, now go get your shoes on and get in my car or I _will_ start harassing you."

She sounds like she's teasing, but Stiles can swear her fangs just got a bit sharper, so he glowers at her, puts on his shoes and follows her out to the parking lot.

"You didn't put up much of a fight," Laura notes on the elevator. Stiles is having a staring contest with the door. Laura continues on, higher pitched to convey a pleased tone, "You _want_ to see him, don't you?"

Stiles snorts, "Yeah, I really want to go see a guy who doesn't even know who I am. You caught me, Hale, darn your detective prowess."

The elevator dings and Stiles gets off without even looking back at Laura. She catches up to him quickly and shoulders her way through the front door that Stiles doesn't hold open for her.

As she unlocks the car and slides in, she states, "You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?"

"You know you're technically kidnapping me again, right?" Stiles shoots back.

Laura shuts up after that.


	4. Chapter 4

The car is filled with an almost claustrophobic quiet on the ride to pick up Derek. Laura makes a few aborted attempts at conversation but always seems to cut herself off before she can get the first syllable out. Stiles wants to leap in, to fill the void with nonsensical words, but the air in the car makes him stay quiet, feeling like Laura needs the time to think and process. He really doesn't think she deserves the time, since she is basically dragging him way from much needed research for a social call, but something in her tense expression allows it.

"I don't mean to be so intense sometimes," Laura finally sighs, her grip relaxing from her frigid hold around the steering wheel. "I just- a few weeks ago my mom told me that I'll inherit the Alpha title if something happens to her," Stiles grips his pants tight between his fingers but Laura doesn't seem to notice, "and she says it'll take a while for me to calm down. It's like, my wolf wanting to make a pack? But right now I just want to... I don't know, it's hard to explain."

"Control everything?" Stiles hedges.

Laura laughs. "Yeah. Something like that," she agrees and smiles at him.

Stiles feels like it should be his turn to apologize, but he really doesn't know what for. A coil of guilt is still firmly imbedded into his bones at Laura's offhanded comment earlier and it's almost choking him. It's all stupid, because it's not his fault the Hale's die, right? It's Kate. Kate Argent and her insane father and their quest to kill every werewolf and go against the code.

It's all her fault. Stiles didn't seduce a sixteen year old. Stiles didn't trap a family downstairs. Stiles didn't light the entire place on fire and watch them burn.

So why does he feel so disgusted with himself?

"It actually makes me feel more rebellious, too," Laura confides with a mischievous smirk as she turns into the parking lot.

Stiles just glares at her, "Rebellious. Is that what you'd call going against your alpha's orders and sneaking me out?"

"She didn't specifically say we couldn't talk to you, just not to ask you questions about the future and I haven't even brought it up once, Stiles. Honestly, it's like you _want_ me to get in trouble."

Which... is true. Laura actually changed the subject pretty quickly when Stiles brought it up at Deaton's place. And it's not that Stiles wants her to get in trouble, it would just be easier if he didn't hang out with her. It was all fine and dandy knowing that Laura died, and while digging up her dead body gave him a few nightmares, it was still hard to connect that it was_ Derek's sister_. But she's in his face now, she's brash and loud and bold and she likes to needle at him until he feels like slapping her. He's afraid he'll start to _like_ her, and he can admit it to himself.

She tosses her phone in Stiles' direction and it lands in his lap. "Can you text Derek and tell him to get his butt out here? I have to go to the bathroom."

"Can't you just tell him while you're in there?" Stiles asks, but she's already walking away from the car and toward the school.

Stiles grumbles to himself as he fiddles with her phone, and then feels like he's been punched in the gut as he looks at the time. He got to Deaton's at four the other day. Had he really been sleeping for twelve hours? Stiles hadn't slept in like that since before his mom died. When his parents got him on his medication, he would always wake up at seven or eight and take his pill with his breakfast.

And Stiles promptly slaps his hand to his forehead with a groan. His medication. For his ADHD. That thing he has that makes it hard to focus? Stiles is going to find that demon and rip it in half, he swears to god. Of course he _would_ get stranded back in time without his phone or wallet or even his fucking pills.

It explains why he ate so much earlier, too. Now that he's aware of it, Stiles can see that his leg hasn't stopped moving since he got in the car and the skin of his arms feels slightly itchy. Fuck. He's supposed to be researching, too. Even on his regular dosage it's hard to sit down and focus for long periods of time, and he usually skips taking a pill just to take two on the chosen day to sit down long enough.

How is he supposed to find out what happened to him now? He doesn't even know how long he's supposed to be back in time for, let alone what'll happen to him off his pills for more than a day. He's never been without them for too long ever since his mom had carefully implemented a system in him.

He'll just have to treat it like he normally would without his pills, Stiles guesses, and tries not to worry about it as he scrolls through Laura's contact list. He hasn't texted on a flip phone in forever, and he can't even find Derek in her contacts. There are weird names like 'Momma T' and 'PB&J', and Stiles wonders if it's some weird paranoid werwolf thing.

Stiles thinks it's just a Laura thing.

He continues tweaking around with her phone and there's not even a single 'D' name contact in the thing. Does Derek even have a phone? Is Laura just being a bitch and toying with him? Stiles tries to guess at Derek's nickname, and he has it narrowed down to "Big Bear", "Growly", and "The One With The Face" when two doors open.

"Names are important, Laura," Stiles says automatically as he snaps the phone closed.

"Oh, that's why!" Laura turns in her seat to say to Derek, and Stiles fights against the urge to do so. He's actually terrified of seeing Derek, and a bundle of nerves that he had been trying to ignore decides to spasm and he feels like he's going to throw up. It's still hard to accept that he's in the past, okay? Deaton looks pretty much normal, and yes, the Hale's are a new touch but he never really knew the Hales when they were alive and it's easy to pretend that they're just new people.

Seeing Derek, and a young Derek at that, would just cement it in to how truly fucked this situation is.

"I just assumed they didn't have phones in the future, or something. Do they have phones?" Laura turns back to him, "Or are you all just conversing telepathically."

Stiles rolls his eyes, "Yes, we still have phones. They all have touch screens though and full keyboards, and people usually, you know, make sure to use actual names before asking a stranger to use them."

Laura's nose twitches, "Sorry. You smell so much like pack that I just forgot, I guess?"

Stiles startles, "I smell like pack?"

In another part of his brain, Stiles wonders if Derek also had his phone full of ridiculous nicknames. What was Stiles'? Probably something mean like "Squirrel Kid" or "Annoying Human".

Laura gives him a look, the one that Cora would give him before saying she wanted to punch him in the face, "Of course you do. You smell like-"

A hand reaches out over the middle console and jars her shoulder, sending her forward into the steering wheel. There's a thick growl, one Stiles has heard so many times that he's not even scared of it at this point, and Laura snarls back quickly. Her eyes flash, and Stiles wouldn't be surprised if Derek's were out too.

He wonders if Derek's are blue or orange. Would it be rude to ask if he killed Paige already? It feels like it would be rude. He tries to remind himself that it would be a new wound, fresh and open, and not just a story told by Peter years later.

Derek was pretty good at handling Stiles being insensitive, though. He did forgive him for digging up Laura's body and _getting him arrested for murdering her _so maybe his younger self wouldn't rip his throat out over a simple question.

It seems like a bad foot to get started off on, though, so he decides to ask Laura or Deaton later.

After they're done with whatever weird, wolfy power play they were doing and Laura's back to putting her key in the ignition, Stiles asks, "Did you prove whatever point you wanted to? Can you take me back to Deaton's, now?"

Laura pouts, "You haven't even said anything to him! Come on, we're taking you out to lunch."

"Laura," A voice hisses from the back, and Stiles is shocked that it's- well, it's not completely different. It's familiar, in a way that feels off somehow. Derek never had a very deep voice, anyway, but this one is almost soft. It's not all growly and macho or anything, it's almost like he's- Stiles quickly turns in his seat, struck by a sudden desire to _see_ him and know for sure.

_God_, he's hardly even sixteen. His face is soft and curved and he doesn't even have any peach fuzz, for fucks sake. There's absolutely no tension in his face, which is going to take a lot to get used to. He's never seen Derek so relaxed, and he supposes it's since the guy's family isn't dead or anything. His hair is wet, dripping water down the side of his face and he looks like a, well, a puppy.

He still looks like Derek, just not at all. All the pieces are there, and Stiles can easily see how he could be Derek or mistake for Derek, but it's just _not him._

And Stiles feels even more lost than he did this morning.

He turns around in his seat quietly and puts his seat belt back on.

"Take me back to Deaton's." He orders, but his voice sounds weak and empty.

"Stiles-" Derek starts, and god, even his voice makes something in Stiles hurt. Stiles didn't realize how used he was to Derek saying his name. He never thought that it would ever sound foreign coming from him, like he's not even sure he's pronouncing it right.

Which.

Fuck.

Stiles doesn't want to think about this. He doesn't want to be here or around Derek or Laura or anyone. He wants to be home, fuck, how he desperately wants to be home. He misses his dad, and god he misses Derek and his pack.

"I can't do this, okay?" Stiles says, quickly, surprising both him and the Hales, "I can't sit here and pretend this is okay, alright? I don't belong here. I know I'm not supposed to be here because if I was then you would have said something to me. You wouldn't have kept me in the dark about this, and I'm fucking up the time line by even talking to you so please, Laura, just take me back to Deaton's so I can get home."

It's a weak excuse and he knows it, but he knows he has to be right. Derek would have hated him for not saving his family if he could. Derek would have resented him and he would never have trusted him again, not like he did. And Stiles is terrified of changing anything. He's almost shaking with how nauseated he is.

"Look, maybe you aren't supposed to be here, but you're here now and it's probably for a reason," Laura says easily, like it's just a fact of life that this is all going to be okay, "Staying in Alan's house isn't going to change anything, it's just going to be hiding from the problem-"

"I really don't think you understand just how okay I am with that."

Derek snorts form the backseat, as if to firmly cement in Stiles just how weird this situation is. Derek doesn't find him funny. It's a well known truth. Derek does not get amused by Stiles.

"This is so weird," Stiles says out loud, awed, and then he starts to laugh.

"Yeah," Derek agrees, which really just makes the laughing worse.

Laura puts the car in reverse and backs out of the parking lot, her head angled at Stiles, "So, lunch? Or are you going to have another mental breakdown?"

The question sobers him up and he sighs, resigned, "I'm probably going to have a few more before the day's over, but why the fuck not."

It's not like he can make it any worse, right? Then he'll go back to Deaton's and he won't let Laura drag him outside anymore. He won't be this risky again. It was a stupid mistake to come out today, and he's not going to do it again. He'll buckle down and research and then go home and everything will be fine.

Laura drives them to a diner that went out of business two years ago in Stiles' time. Something about finding rats in the kitchen, but Stiles is with werewolves so he totally trust in their sense of good food. Maybe he can go visit that coffee shop by the station that went out of business. He'd have to be careful and time it so he doesn't run into this dad, because if seeing Derek hurt this much then how much worse would it be to see his dad?

Or worse, himself?

Stiles doesn't even want to imagine meeting himself. He'd probably tell him something stupid like "invest in the iPod" or "don't go out looking for dead bodies, no, seriously, don't do it kid". Some weird, insignificant tips like that.

It's even worse seeing Derek outside of the car, because his shoulders are so... tiny. He's almost adorable, and even thinking that makes Stiles feel all weird and wrong. Derek's shoulders are supposed to be as wide as a mountain range, okay? He's supposed to look like he takes up an entire room just by standing in it. He's supposed to be able to fit the human on them in a fireman's carry in case of emergencies where they have to run away and the human gets hurt and maybe even sprains an ankle or something- the human really doesn't like to talk about it.

This Derek is lanky and tall, and he has muscles from swimming and basketball, but he obviously doesn't devote himself to a fitness regiment like he does in the future. Stiles kind of wonders if his Derek pushed himself to such punishing limits because that was what it was meant to be- a punishment.

Stiles carefully averts his eyes and lets Laura shuffle him into the diner and shove him in a booth.

"You have to have one of their milkshakes," Laura orders as she flips open a menu.

"Not all of us have werewolf metabolisms," Stiles mutters.

He never really ate here, since it was so far away from his house, and he and Scott would usually bike it over to the pizza place by his house instead, but his dad brought him here once or twice before Stiles got on his health kick. He can't really remember the taste, but he orders a root beer float with a side coke, fuck he needs the caffeine if he hopes to make it through the night, and a burger and fries. It's a safe bet.

After a waitress takes their order, Laura gets a milkshake and ribs and Derek gets a milkshake and the same burger Stiles gets, Laura raises her eyebrow, "Why'd you order two drinks?"

"I left my pills back in 2013, since this really wasn't a planned visit," Stiles frowns, "I have ADHD. It makes my brain react different to caffeine so instead of acting as an upper it brings me down," Stiles shrugs, "It's usually pretty manageable but it really sucks that I can't drink coffee without wanting to crash."

Derek makes a face, "One of my friends has that. Sorry, man."

Stiles snorts at the sheer weirdness of Derek Hale apologizing- and for something that's not even his fault, "It's not anything to be sorry about. I was born with it. It's not like I'm apologizing for you sprouting claws once a month."

Laura grins widely at Derek, who glares at her. She turns to Stiles and fixes him with a careful stare, and something about it is almost predatory, "So, Stiles, tell us more about yourself."

Stiles raises an eyebrow, "This is encroaching pretty close to that future topic you aren't allowed to touch, don't you think?"

Laura pouts and Derek nudges her with elbow. Derek doesn't look very comfortable in his seat at all, almost squirming, but Laura ignores him. "I just want to know more about my little bro's pack mate. Gotta give you the gold star approval before you get back home, right?"

From the look Derek's shooting her, Stiles really doesn't believe her for a second, but he can't find out what angle she's trying to work.

So, he shrugs instead of fighting it and says, "There's really not much to tell. Without all that supernatural crap, I'm pretty boring. I play lacrosse, play in a few online gaming communities, work on my magic. Wait, does the magic count as supernatural crap if it's my supernatural crap?"

Stiles makes a face as he considers this, and then the waitress is back with their food. Stiles readily digs into his burger and takes a long chug of his coke. He wishes he had an energy drink or something because that would work twelve times better. Maybe he can talk Deaton into picking some up? Fuck, why does this have to be so hard?

"You're magic?" Derek asks, incredulous.

Stiles makes a noise of hurt low in his throat, "What's that supposed to mean? 'You're magic'. Of course I'm magic. How the hell else do you think I would be able to travel through _time_?" Stiles turns to Laura, "Did you tell him anything about what I said?"

"The story was pretty long, in our defense." Laura defends with a sniff. The barbeque sauce from her ribs looks like blood if Stiles squints enough, and it does nothing to make her look as innocent as she's trying to be.

Stiles huffs out a whatever and carefully undoes the top buttons of the shirt Deaton left him. Derek's eyes widen at the exposed skin and looks ready to fling a menu on his chest to defend his honor or something, which is, again, laughable considering that Stiles has seen Derek without a shirt on a hundred times in his life.

"Relax," Stiles rolls his eyes and shrugs a shoulder out. Derek's eyes instantly lock on the tattoos that curve around his shoulder muscle and behind his neck. He also rolls up his right sleeve to show his locks and bindings rune, simply because it's one of his favorites and since it's separate it's easier to recognize for what it is.

Laura whistles low, "Those look a lot cooler when you aren't half dead."

Stiles smiles, proud, and says, "Thanks."

Derek's taken to playing with his fries, "I still don't think you're magic."

"Oh, so you can accept that I'm from six years in the future and you're my alpha and a bunch of horrible shit happens to you and your family but magic is just too much for you to process?"

"Yep."

"Future you is much more trusting in me and my awesome magic," Stiles sniffs.

Laura cackles, "Oh, I'm sure he is."

Derek looks uncomfortable, and glares at Laura, "There hasn't been a magic user around Beacon Hills in years and you know that, Laura."

Stiles mindlessly traces a pattern on his plate in the ketchup, with squiggles and diagonals that intertwine in a complicated pattern. It's a simple ward, one he's drawn over a hundred times. He could do it blindfolded if he really needed to.

He licks the ketchup off of his fingertips, still looking down at the plate, and lets off the tight clench he feels deep in his chest. It unravels, only slightly, nothing compared to the time his magic settled, and then looks up with a grin. Laura and Derek seem to have continued into a heated conversation with their eyebrows without him, but Stiles doesn't mind. He's used to werewolves being on different wave lengths sometimes.

He picks up the salt and pepper and starts dumping it over his plate, smiling wider at the Hales' expressions when it bunches at the top and slides down the sides of his barrier, almost like a snow globe.

"Protection ward. Keeps things out." Stiles clarifies, and puts the shakes back down. He sweeps at the speckles of salt then fell on his clothes and dump them on the floor.

Derek's face is twisted into a familiar scowl, and Stiles tries to ignore how much it hurts to see it, "That's pretty weak, man."

"Yeah, like I'm going to break out all my top tricks in the middle of a dinner. God, you don't change at all," Stiles mutters the last part to himself as he breaks the barrier and scoops up some ketchup on a fry.

Laura's grin is almost shark like, "'Rek here takes you to many diners, then?"

Stiles makes a face at Derek, "'Rek?"

"Like wreck?" Laura clarifies, and Stiles almost slaps himself as he remembers seeing it in her phone book, "You should have seen him his first full moon. He took down three entire trees before mom was able to get him under control."

"Oh, like you're any better. You were practically humping your boyfriends house trying to get at him last year."

Laura blushes a furious, bright red and promptly reaches out and snaps Derek's head onto the table.

Stiles laughs along with them, but he can't help but feel the scrape against his chest. Seeing Derek, laughing with his sister? Making fun of each other and imparting physical violence? It hurts. It's so hard to compare him to his own Derek, because he can actually see them. In their jaw, in their eyes, in their fucking hair. His Derek could laugh like this, if he let himself. If Kate hadn't burned his entire family, his Derek could be this happy and safe and carefree.

And he wants that. He wants his Derek to be this happy. Sure, there's a few begrudging smiles here and there, and Stiles can venture to say that Derek has grown at most content with his pack, but he's never smiled as brightly as this Derek.

Stiles tries to not think about how easily he could make that happen. He attacks his burger with a vengeance, trying to ignore the ache in his chest as Derek steals a rib from Laura.

Fuck, he is so screwed.


	5. Chapter 5

"So," Laura starts, after she successfully steals a handful of fries off of Derek in retaliation, "I know it's not your preferred place to be, but, how are you liking the past so far?"

Stiles makes a face, "Besides the fact that I have no clue what I'm doing, no clue why I'm doing it, or have the any idea of what is going on, I have to say it's pretty boring," Stiles takes a large gulp of coke and shrugs nonchalantly, "I mean, so far I've fainted and been kidnapped twice. Pretty much the regular gig."

Derek and Laura gape at him. She gets a disapproving look on her face and demands, "You make a habit of getting kidnapped?" She turns to Derek and punches him in the shoulder, not even blinking as he flinches back and hisses in pain, "Why are you letting your pack member get kidnapped, you dickhead!"

Stiles tries really hard to not be amused at Derek's flabbergasted expression, "He's not even my pack member right now!" He yelps, indigently.

"God, see, this is why I'm going to be the next alpha!"

"Are you sure it's not because you're a bossy bi-" Derek mutters under his breath, only to squawk loudly as she punches him again.

And then he loses it, laughter bubbling up out of him like happiness as he chokes on a drink of his soda. He tries not to think about how this is the first time he's felt so light in what feels like years, and lets the feeling roll through him. Laura and Derek soon join in until they're all red in the face and leaning on the table for support.

When they calm down, Laura very politely says, "You're still a dick, though, 'Rek."

"Better a dick than a bitch."

"A bitch is a dog and dogs go bark and bark grows on trees and trees are a part of nature and nature is beautiful so fuck you very much."

Stiles places his head in his hands and groans loudly, suddenly realizing that 2007 is nothing but a hotbed of embarrassing internet quotes, "Of all the time periods," He whines to himself, "Why the one with bad memes?"

"What's a meme?" Laura whispers to Derek loudly.

Derek just shrugs.

While Stiles sits, bemoaning the loss of all of his favorite pop culture, Laura and Derek talk about boring, normal, nonwerewolfy things. Like school. Stiles graduated with a 3.9 and still insist that if he hadn't missed two finals by tracking the movements of a troll with Boyd and Allison he would have even beat Lydia for the spot of valedictorian.

As it was, he just had to settle for fifth best and the knowledge of the woods around Beacon Hills being safe for another week.

"Oh, is Harris a dick here, too?" Stiles interjects as Derek whines about a Chemistry test tomorrow.

Laura groans, "God, that asshole is still teaching in six years? That is probably the worst news, even counting everything you said yesterday."

Stiles shrugs lightly, not mentioning that Laura is indirectly asking about the future, and shakes his head, "No he, uh, he died. Ritually sacrificed, actually. Was pretty gruesome."

Stiles avoids looking in Derek's direction as he remembers Ms. Blake. He shudders lightly, seeing her grotesque face twist and hiss in his mind. Either way, the Hales don't notice his change in mood.

While he very deliberately rips off small bits of a napkin, silently wondering how long it's going to take for that caffeine to kick in, Laura and Derek talk about Derek's water polo team. Apparently they're doing well. Stiles doesn't really care, where he's from the team sucks and water polo had never been his thing but hearing Derek talk about swimming makes him remember the incident with the kanima. Stiles tries not to think about how weird it is to remember experiences with a person who hasn't had them yet.

Considering how good at swimming Derek must be, Stiles vaguely wonders how much it must have stung to not be able to do it that entire time.

"I feel bad for Mr. Lahey and everything, but our new coach is way better." Derek says with a smile, and his eyes are almost sparkling. Stiles resolutely does not compare him to an anime character, too strung up on the other half of that sentence.

Mr. Lahey, as in Isaac's dad? Stiles bites his lip as he remembers pictures of Isaac's dad with the swim team, pictures of his body after it was torn apart by the kanima. Isaac's brother must have died this year. Shit. Stiles' eyes widen as he realizes that Isaac is going to start getting abused soon.

Isaac's dad is going to start locking him in a fucking meat locker.

His heart must speed up at the idea of it, because both Laura and Derek pause to look over at him. Stiles has never hated someone as much as he hates that demon right now. Sending him back in time, leaving him surrounded by all of these horrible things about to happen to his friends and he's not even able to stop it? Stiles feels his blood boil, and he remembers that this is the year that Scott's dad leaves him, and Lydia's parents file for divorce.

That his mom dies.

That last thought feels like a sledgehammer is rammed straight into his chest.

There's a hand on his shoulder and someone is talking but Stiles can't even think beyond the fact that somewhere his mom still might be alive.

"What's the date?" He demands roughly, shaking off the hand. His voice is thick, like he'd been crying or holding his breath, but he doesn't care because his mom could still be alive.

Laura is perched on his side of the booth now but Stiles doesn't remember that happening. She gives him a weird look, "It's June 22nd. Does it matter?"

Stiles grits his teeth, and he can't stop seeing his mom's smile as she handed him apple slices, can't block out the sound of her laugh whenever he jumped from topic to topic. His hands shake, and he pushes at Laura until she moves out of the booth, giving him space to escape.

"I-I have to go," He says, distracted, not even looking at either of the Hales.

His mind is buzzing, dates and hospital visits flashing before his eyes. His mom would have only been admitted a few weeks ago. She'll still be relatively healthy. His hands are shaking now, so he balls them and thrust them into his pockets almost angrily.

He's hardly out the door when there's a hand on his elbow, jerking him back. Stiles follows the movement, annoyed, and sees Derek holding him in place.

"What?" He growls. His body is almost vibrating with the need to get out, to go see his mom.

"What's up with you?" Derek asks, scowling, "You're running out of here like a bat out of hell."

Stiles groans, hands twisting in his pockets. He doesn't have time for this!

"Every minute I'm here is another minute she's dying!" Stiles yells, frustrated and a second away from pulling at his hair.

Laura's suddenly there, nudging Derek out of place. She has a wallet in one of her hands and it's digging into his arm with her tight grip. Her face is a mask of calm and her eyes capture his and try to hold him still, "Stiles," She says, and her voice is slow and careful, like he's a scared animal, "Who's dying?"

"My mom," He mumbles, distracted. In his head, he's routing the closest route to the hospital. It's only thirty minutes away if he runs.

Derek and Laura both share a look of realization, finally matching the Stiles in front of them with the boy in Cora's class.

"Stiles Stilinksi," Derek says softly to Laura, who nods in acknowledgment.

Stiles isn't really surprised that Derek and Laura know about his mom, but it's mostly because he can't bring himself to care right now. He can still remember all of the casseroles and bun cakes he and his dad had subsided on for six months after she died, like the entirety of Beacon Hills didn't know how to handle loss other than to shove food at it.

"Seriously," He says quickly, trying to squirm out of the firm grip Laura has on his biceps, "I really, really need to go, okay? Like, right now."

But Laura and Derek don't even listen to him, already trying to coral him back to the car. He fights against their holds but werewolves and they manage to buckle him in the car without too much of a scene. As soon as they close his door he's undoing his seat belt and scrabbling for the door handle but by the time he has a grip on it Laura already has her finger on the driver side control lock.

"You need to calm down, Stiles," She says, in that same calm tone. It sounds manual and mechanic and it sets his teeth on edge.

"I don't need to do anything but get to the freaking hospital." Stiles snaps, glaring at her. "You need to either let me out or take me there."

Laura's backing out of the parking lot, not even looking at him, when Derek says, almost ashamed, "We're taking you back to Deaton's."

"Uh, no. No you're not." Stiles says quickly, "Hospital. That's where we're going."

"Stiles," Laura says quietly, like she's in pain, "You don't understand. We can't do that."

"I don't understand? You're the one who doesn't understand. Laura! It's my mom!"

"Yeah, well now you know how I felt when you told me my entire family dies in a few months," Laura snorts without humor.

Stiles feels a burning anger in his chest at the words. His hands are shaking again as he grits out, "So, what, now you're punishing me? Is that it?"

Laura looks offended and hurt at the words, mouth dropping open as soon as they're out and yells back angrily, "No, you idiot! We're helping you!" She looks away from the road and gestures to him, "Look at you! You're shaking and can hardly even breathe, okay? You need to calm down right now. I'm not letting you go anywhere near that hospital if you can't control yourself."

"I swear to god, Laura, I can and will fry your battery unless you let me out of this car right now." Stiles glares at her, and as the words slip out he can feel his magic react, warming along the veins in his arms to his fingertips, little zips of electricity cackling in the webbing of his fingers, prepared to do what he needs.

"You can't just go storming into a hospital demanding to see your mom! You're from the future, Stiles! She wouldn't even recog-"

A loud siren cuts Laura off, red and blue lights flashing in the back window, but the damage has already been done. Stiles feels like she just threw a bucket of ice water on him, and even the warmth of his magic has left him. He sits frozen in his seat, staring blankly at her as the words twist in his mind.

In a second all of the fight drains out of him, leaving him to sit there and god, he absolutely hates this. He feels exactly like the eleven year old boy he's supposed to be in 2007, weak and helpless and so fucking lost. He can't even be mad at Laura, because she's absolutely right, because the thought of his mom not knowing who he is would definitely hurt more than not seeing her at all.

Knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less, though.

Laura glares at him out of the side of her eye and pulls over to the shoulder of the road. She reaches over him and pulls a piece of paper out of the glove compartment, huffing out an annoyed breath.

"Laura," Derek hisses in a whisper from the back. "It's the Deputy."

She looks in the driver side mirror and lets out a low barrage of, "Shit, shit, shit, shit," She whispers to herself, and then looks over at Stiles in pity, "Just follow my lead, okay?"

Which just makes Stiles sit back in a sort of confusion, because yeah, the Deputy is kind of a dick but it's not like he's Satan with a ticket pad, or anything. It isn't until there's a familiar face crouching in front of Laura's window that Stiles understands.

And when he does, he feels like he's going to barf all over her dashboard.

How can his dad look so old and so young at the same time?

His heart slams against his chest instantly, the stuttering beats pulsing throughout his body. The shaking in his hands gets worse until his muscles feel sore, like he's been holding up weights all day, and his breathing comes in pants of breath, like his tired arms have dropped them on his chest.

The erratic breathing does nothing good for his stitches, which pull on his side and make his breathing even worse and the pain is like a needle poked between his ribs. Stiles can hear people talking, but he can't make out the words and suddenly his door is being thrown open and someone is pulling him out of the car. His legs feel like jelly and all he can manage to do is slide gracelessly to the floor before he's leaning to the side and vomits up the lunch he just ate.

There's a voice in his ear, and it sounds familiar but he can't even see and he's still shaking, still struggling to breathe against the agony in his chest. It takes ten minutes of sitting on the side of the road, but the warm hand wrapped around his shoulders slowly brings him back.

"Sorry," He croaks around a lump in his throat. He tries to laugh, but his eyes are closed and his skin feels clammy and nothing about this is funny.

Did he really just have an anxiety attack? It was building since he realized his mom was still alive, he knew, but that didn't make it any better. Stiles tilts his head back and bangs it against the side of the car lightly, groaning. His limbs feel stiff and he isn't even going to try moving them.

"It's alright," A voice says, and it only takes a few seconds for it to click that it's his dad's voice. It isn't' as assuring as it should have been, but he fights against the next wave of panic, "My son gets panic attacks like that all the time."

Stiles laughs without humor and finally manages to crack open an eyelid. Against the setting sun, he can only see half of his dad's face, set into a familiar half smile. Laura and Derek are standing behind him, Laura wringing her hands and Derek scratching the back of his neck uselessly.

"I feel bad for him then," Stiles settles on saying, wincing at how his voice still sounds, "They suck."

His dad laughs and pats him on the back. "Yeah," He agrees easily, "That they do."

"I didn't know he was having one," Laura says. She sounds almost quiet now, voice too soft for the yelling match they had only a while ago. "I'm really sorry, sir. I never would have made him get in the car if I knew."

She's looking at his dad, but Stiles feels like the words are for him.

"It's alright, Laura. No one was hurt, but someone could have been and that's what's important." He says, and then looks at Stiles, and Stiles half expects him to make some comment about how Stiles should have known better, but his expression stern, "Next time you're not feeling too well do me a favor, kid? Talk to someone. We can't help if we don't know what's going on."

He knows that it's the residual left hanging on him from his attack, knows he wouldn't have done it otherwise, but the words make him break out in a wave of crying. It's just too much and he feels strung out to his limits. First hearing about his mom, and now his dad in front of him, caring about him but looking at him like he doesn't even know who he is? Stiles just wants to crawl into his bed and sleep for a few weeks. But he can't because his bed isn't his right now and it won't be for six years and everything sucks and he just wants everything to stop.

Freaking Deputy Stilinksi offers Stiles a small smile and stands up to face Laura.

"I'm letting you kids off with a warning," He says, "But don't let me catch you speeding like that again. And you," He turns back to Stiles, "Make sure to keep your seat belt on. And never get in a car if you're feeling an attack coming on, got it?"

Stiles already knows that, has had it drilled into him when his dad first gave him his car keys, but just settles for nodding.

The radio on his hip crackles back to life and Stiles' dad sighs. "Duty calls," He smiles familiarly, and makes a comment to Derek and Laura about telling someone named Randall hello for him before walking back to his truck.

The Hale's are on him in an instant, crouching down in front of him. Derek makes a face at the barf but beyond a nose twitch he say anything about it. He places a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

Laura tugs him into a hug before he can even blink and is busting out apologies faster than Stiles can keep up.

"It's alright," He says, though it really isn't, "You were right."

Her face twist with guilt, "I was just trying to avoid all of," She waves a hand, "This. I mean, you saw how you handled seeing Derek. Hell, look at how you acted when you saw your dad." She pulls back and bites her lip, "I just don't want you to be hurt anymore than you are by this and I'm really sorry for making that choice for you."

"You're right," He says again, because he's just too exhausted to say anything else. "But I seriously need to get back to Deaton's now. I feel like I'm going to crash any second."

Laura nods resolutely and her and Derek quickly help him back into the car.

The drive back is too quiet, an awkward atmosphere in the air. Stiles would try to crack it, but his limbs feel like jelly and his throat is still scratchy. Derek helps him out of the car when they get to the apartment building and tells Laura to keep the car running.

Stiles stumbles through the doors and to the elevator, Derek following after him. Once the doors close, he blurts, "I'm sorry. We really were just doing what we thought was best."

He shrugs and leans against the wall. "I understand that," He says, choosing to stare at his shoes than at Derek. "It's just... I haven't seen her in six years, you know? I didn't ever think I would get the chance to see her again. I just wasn't prepared for it, I guess."

Derek nods, like he understands, but Stiles knows he really doesn't. In six years, Derek will understand, and they'll have conversations at length about dead family members and empty places in their hearts and homes, but this Derek only sees death as a thing to come in the future, not something affecting him right now.

"Are you going to break out of here and go see her as soon as we leave?" Derek asks, a small upturn in the corner of his lips hinting at a smile.

"Probably not," Stiles sighs, "Seeing my dad was hard enough. And he just... The way he looked at me like I was a complete stranger hurt." Stiles gestures over to where Derek is standing, "Even the way you look at me like you don't know me hurts. I don't know if I'd be able to handle her doing it, too."

It's quiet for the rest of the elevator ride, but, unlike the car, this one isn't nearly as awkward.

When they get to Deaton's door, Derek asks, "Are you going to avoid us, now?"

Stiles feels himself smirk without meaning to, "Probably, but I doubt that'll stop Laura."

He opens the door and Derek turns away from Stiles, grinning. He can hear the elevator ding, and the sound of Derek stepping on it, and then silence. Stiles closes the door and considers the merits of just crawling over to the his pullout couch, because his knees feel like they're going to buckle any second, but manfully makes the long walk to the bed.

It takes him a while to fall asleep, body still thrumming with too much adrenaline from his attack, and he's sore in places that ache whenever he shifts on the bed, but when he finally closes his eyes, he doesn't even dream.

* * *

**AN -** since like 4 people have asked me about Stiles' tattoos I made a thing using the least amount of effort possible

the-candy-van. tumblr. com post/58584925934/nasbab-stiles


	6. Chapter 6

**June 23rd, 2007**

Stiles wakes up to the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen. He groans and brings the blanket back up to cover his head, shielding his eyes from the putrid light.

"Good morning, Mr. Stilinksi." Deaton says, sounding far too cheerful for, Stiles peaks out to find a clock, four in the morning.

"It's too early to be alive," Stiles whines huddling back under the blanket again.

Deaton chooses not to respond and Stiles groans again, remembering yesterday and meeting Derek and his dad and his panic attack. He flings the blanket off of himself, wishing back for the blissful ignorance that waking up had given him, and stumbles out of his bed.

"The sun isn't anywhere near up yet. You're insane."

Deaton's scooping bacon in equal portions on a plate when Stiles finds his way out of the bathroom. He's still wearing the same clothes from yesterday but they don't smell too bad so he doesn't make a fuss about changing them. There's eggs on the plate too, along with some pancakes.

"It appears someone ate the entirety of my waffle collection yesterday," Deaton drones in that calming voice of his.

Stiles doesn't even try to look sheepish, already digging into his food, "Six years without food will do that to a man, Alan."

Deaton doesn't even dignify him with an eye roll and instead just hands him a warm cup of coffee, "I went by the Hales yesterday. Laura told told me what happened."

Stiles snorts elegantly, "Oh yeah? Which part? Lots of things happened."

He takes the cup and swallows the burning liquid, letting the bitter, black coffee burn his throat. He pours himself another one while Deaton just watches him.

"The part where you had an anxiety attack over not being able to see your mother."

"Hey," Stiles says, setting his cup on the counter with a heavy clank and rounding on him with one finger, "There was a lot of things to be anxious about going on, okay? First she dragged me to meet Derek and then told me my mom was still alive and then I had to have a conversation with my dad because little miss werewolf couldn't even bother to drive the speed limit!"

"What were you planning to do hen you got to the hospital, Stiles?" Deaton asks, eyes kind, "I'm sure you know I don't condone any kind of magic that could bring a person back to life-"

Stiles sputters and flails and yelps, "Dude! I wasn't even thinking about that. I just wanted to see her, okay? I swear. I wasn't going to do any voodoo magic on my mom to keep her from dying."

Deaton shrugs, "It's not like she hasn't tried almost everything anyway. I just wanted you to understand that you can't save her."

Stiles feels like he swallows lead at the comment and then drops his fork to his plate, "What do you mean she's tried almost everything? Dude. My mom isn't magic."

Deaton stares at him passively in that annoying way of his, "Isn't she? Stiles, how did you think that you became a spark in the first place?" He takes a bite of bacon, not breaking eye contact, "I'm just concerned seeing as that would be the second attack you've had. You've only been here for three days now, Stiles. We haven't even begun our research yet and this might very well be an adverse effect to this time leap."

Stiles waves him off, too busy focusing on the idea that his mom is magic what,"I use to get these all the time, okay? There's nothing magical about them. It's just me." He puts some butter on his pancake and mixes it in with syrup before taking a large bite and adds, "By the way, we are totally having a conversation on how to drop the bomb on someone that their mom is a spark too because you, frankly, suck at it. Speaking of that research though, do you know when we could start?"

Deaton doesn't work on the weekends, so the pair spend the next two days working through summaries and marking down what books may or may not be helpful.

A werewolf comes by, but Stiles ignores them in favor of looking through a promising book. Deaton sends them away.

* * *

**June 25th, 2007**

Laura is at the door not even two minutes after Deaton pulls out of the parking structure. She looks angry, eyes blown wide like they are right before she shifts and she growls out his name in a manner that would send lesser men into a fit of distress.

Stiles is behind a mountain ash barrier, though, so he just meets her stare coolly and greets her in a much more polite manner. (By which he really just glares at her and says her name in a mock growl that makes her eyebrow twitch in annoyance.)

"You've been ignoring me"

"I've been reading," Stiles rolls his eyes and gestures to the mound of books behind him, "There's a difference."

Laura doesn't seem to care much for the distinction. "It's not like I don't have better things to do than stand at your door, Stiles. Are you going to let me in or not?"

Stiles pretends to think about it and then shrugs, "Not."

He then kicks the door closed in her angry looking face and pretends to not hear her banging on it for a full ten minutes after. If he can read over Boyd and Erica having sex upstairs then he can damn well block out her angry muttering.

* * *

**June 28th, 2007**

Stiles is almost at his wits end when Deaton calls in a favor and sends over two emissaries, Leah and Jocelyn, he's on good terms with. They're both tall and walk with an amazonian like grace. They don't even trip over his piles of books and easily navigate their way through his piles.

When they're situated, Stiles can tell they're two of the people from the picture by Deaton's computer. It makes him itch to take a closer peak at it, and when he does he finds himself surprised to not only see Ms. Morrell in the picture, but Ms. Blake too.

As he puts the picture down he calmly asks, "You two wouldn't happen to know Deucalion, would you?"

Leah makes an unpleasant face and Jocelyn looks down right sympathetic. It's the latter who says, with a hand over her heart, "Oh, yes. He used to be such an incredible alpha. He believed in democracy and alliances and last I heard he was working on bringing the packs together to form a giant pack. He thinks it'll be safer if we're fighting with each other than standing alone."

The other one shakes her head, "Marin Morrell says he's abandoning that idea now. I don't know. I don't trust him. She says he spends all of his time in his room and only lets her in and acts nothing but a maddened fool whenever she's there. He hasn't seen any of his betas in months-"

"That's understandable, Leah. The poor man lost his eyesight and had to kill his second in command not too long after."

"An alpha is supposed to draw strength from his pack, not completely abandon them just because he's a bit depressed," She sniffs, "I'm thinking of telling Ennis to withdraw our alliance from him all together."

Stiles' heart thuds maddeningly in his chest as he sputters, "Ennis? You're Ennis' emissary?"

Leah eyes him critically, her brown eyes locking on his as she tilts her head. "Alan said you were a time traveler. Tell me, boy, what do you know of my pack's future?" Her smile turns wicked and sharp, "Come, let's play a game of fortune teller."

Jocelyn smacks her on the arm with a harsh look, "He also said to leave the boy alone. He's one of our own. Don't go messing with his head for your own game."

Leah snorts and the sound makes Stiles back up closer to the wall, "One of ours? He's too young to know much, Jocelyn. I bet he doesn't even have a pack in his time. Tell me, Stiles, was it?, do you have a pack?"

Her tone is deceptively sweet but it's one that he's seen Lydia use to bring down high school girls all the time and it sets him on edge. His palms tingle in warmth and he leaves them loose at his sides, ready in case he needs them.

"Yes," He declares simply, and it's enough to break the grin from her face for a few seconds before she changes it for a smirk, "And I need to get back to them. So, if you're going to help me, then great. Stick around. But if you're going to sit around here and gossip and try to get me to trade secrets then you should just leave now," She doesn't look convinced at all she he makes an open globe with his hands and lets flames lick out of his palms and bleed into his fingertips until it's enveloping his entire forearm in flame. He doesn't even feel the heat and his skin doesn't burn, but the fire roars and rolls around his arms, a promise that he can and will complete, "before I make you."

Leah tips her head back in a laugh and the shock of it makes the fire on his arms dissipate, "You are a spark, aren't you?" She grins, and there isn't any evil intent behind it at all.

Jocelyn rolls her eyes, "Sorry," She says with a weak smile, "She has a thing for games. You get used to her. Let's get to work though, shall we? I have to get back to my pack soon and since I am the runic expert here," She shoots Leah a smug grin, "I'm going to need you to take your shirt off."

Overcome by a ginormous sense of whiplash, Stiles does as she asks and wonders if all emissaries are this insane.

Jocelyn traces his runes down in a notebook, muttering to herself all the while, and makes a face at his protection ward when she gets to it. She doesn't comment though, and just continues copying them down.

"I don't see anything here that could be manipulated like Alan thinks it has," She says, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, "But the fact that the magic stored in the runes is gone is a bit alarming. "It's possible that the demon that sent you back used your stored up magic to be able to do this but I've never heard of it before."

"And that you can still manipulate elements is weird too," Leah says, frowning, "Have you been able to do much else?"

"I made a small ward last week but..."

"So this demon obviously knew what it was doing." Jocelyn concludes, a worried look on her face. "The only question remaining is why."

Basically, they don't tell him anything he doesn't already know.

* * *

**June 29th – July 6th, 2007**

Laura's out of school for the summer now and has taken to sitting vigilant outside of Deaton's door. Stiles never really knew someone who liked to talk as much as he did before he met Laura and vaguely considers the idea of Derek hating him rambling so much because it reminded him of Laura.

Down that road lays ideas of Derek hating him because he could have saved his family and didn't, though, so he quickly shoves that idea from his head.

She talks about pretty much everything, though. About how pissed she was that he missed her graduation. About her boyfriend Brad and how she's considering telling him about the whole werewolf thing. About what she's thinking about doing for college. About her friends and what they're planning on doing this summer and how much easier she'd be able to do those things if she didn't have to sit there and wait for him to talk to her.

The only time he does respond is when he tries to pull that guilt trip on him, ("I could be having fun, Stiles, do you realize how you're ruining my last summer with my family?"), that he breaks his silence and throws a thick book at the door. She cackles for an entire three minutes.

The days when she talks about her family are the worst though. He knows it's a tactic hostage negotiators use, and the idea that it's being used on him makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time. She talks about Cora and how sweet she is, which really doesn't correlate with his memory of her, but okay. She talks about her mom and how great of an alpha she is and how she would love to take Stiles in as their own and how they even have a nice spare guest room that he can stay in if he wants. She talks about her human dad, Rand, which irks Stiles for some reason. Why hadn't his Derek ever told him his dad was a human?

Sometimes she even talks about Derek. She says she's worried about him, that now that it's summer he's staying out late and not coming home on the weekends. She says she hardly ever sees him and when she does he reeks of sex. Stiles tries to not feel too guilty, even as something twist in his gut and whispers that it's starting.

"He hasn't acted like this in a year. We all thought he was getting better, you know? That he was moving on from Paige," Well, that answers that question, "You know who Paige is, right?" Stiles doesn't answer. Laura doesn't wait for one. "He did the most ridiculous stuff after that. He stayed in bed for like, two months. Refused to even go to school. He had to repeat a grade. You know he's supposed to be a senior now? But, no now he's going to start his junior year in the fall. Or, well, he's supposed to. I don't know what's going to happen now. You've changed a lot of things, Stiles.

"Mom and dad won't even make plans for things months away and all they want to do is spend time with everyone. Uncle Peter thinks we should torture you," Stiles' heart speeds up at that, but Laura hurries on, "Don't worry though. Mom won't let him."

That doesn't comfort Stiles as much as Laura thinks it should, especially since Stiles has been on the receiving end of Peter's wrath before.

The last day Laura visits she just sits there and cries, and Stiles aches to open the door and comfort her but he restrains himself. He can't even focus on the book in his lap with her sobs so loud. He doesn't know how long she cries for, but it feels like days and his bones ache from sitting still for so long. He's too afraid to even breathe loudly, like she'll just tear the door down and kill him herself.

"I had a plan, you know?" She hiccups around a sob, "I was going to get you to see that we're real. We're real people, Stiles. We're not just Derek's dead family. We're living, breathing people who deserve a chance to live. And you can save us, you know? You totally could. You could be like our own little hero. And I know that it's asking a lot of you." She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and Stiles can hear the swift sound of her growing her nails. It's a calming tactic he's seen Derek use before. "I know you have a life and a future and friends and a family waiting for you, but I have that here. I have that here and you just came in and told me that it's all going to be gone in a few months and I don't know how to deal with that."

They're both quiet. Half an hour goes by with them just breathing through the door, listening to each other before Laura finally says, "Don't you think we're worth it?"

It makes Stiles want to cry again and how much he truly does.

* * *

**July 10th, 2007**

The days are long and quiet without Laura.

Stiles feels too empty to even read any of the books Deaton left out for him. Instead he tries to familiarize himself with all the ingredients in the closet but he doesn't get very far.

Deaton comes home to find him sitting on the floor crying and wordlessly sends him to bed.

* * *

**July 12th, 2007**

Talia comes to visit him. Stiles is surprised by her sudden visit, having completely forgot her promise to Deaton to come talk to him when he was physically healed.

Stiles doesn't really think he's healed all that physically, but holds the barrier off enough for her to come in. He doesn't think Talia Hale will take to sitting on in the hallway as well as Laura did.

Her eyes rove over the books before shaking her head and smiling softly at him, "Mr. Stilinksi," She says, "I hear Laura's been talking to you. I hope she wasn't too much trouble for you."

Stiles shakes his head, a rock dropping to his stomach at the mention of Laura, "Uh, no, no, she was fine."

She nods like she doesn't believe him, "Well, at least I've raised one of my children right."

Talia shakes her head almost sadly and Stiles wonders if it has anything to do with what Laura said about Derek sneaking off to see Kate.

The rock in his stomach turns to lead and he quickly sits down on the couch before his knees start to buckle.

"Is there anything I can do to help you, Mrs. Hale?" Stiles asks, and then immediately winces.

Talia just smiles kindly, "Yes, well, there are a many number of things you can do for me, Mr. Stilinksi. I'm sure you already know the most important one. The other one, well, it's more of a social gesture, really. My family is having a party on the fourteenth. It's a celebration the moon, and all, you know, strictly Hale traditions. I'm sure you're well aware of them."

Stiles tries to not let it show that he has no clue what Hale traditions she's talking about and just nods along. Fucking Derek and his damn need to distance himself from anything reminding him of his family.

"I was wondering if you would like to come. I'm sure Laura and Derek would love to have you."

Stiles scratches the back of his neck, remembering what Laura said about her plan to see them as real people, and quickly shakes his head, "Uh, thanks for the offer, Mrs. Hale, but I really don't think that's a good idea."

She nods like she understands, "Well, never the less, I can smell you're still not healed completely, and if I did try to talk to you in this state I'm sure Alan would have an aconite injection in me before you could even respond. You should expect me back in a few weeks though and we'll have that discussion."

Before she gets to the door, Talia turns to Stiles. Her face is set in a frown, a complete change from the smile she had on only a second ago, "I hate to ask, but, I know Laura told you about Derek and... I was wondering if you know what he's up to."

And Stiles doesn't want to, but her face is so damn motherly and concerned that he finds himself nodding.

"And is he- is he happy? With whatever it is he's doing?"

Stiles chews on his bottom lip, not knowing how to answer. Derek's happy in the moment, sure. He thinks he's in love with all of his cootie sharing with Kate, but in the future? No. He's nowhere near happy.

But Stiles nods again, and it's not exactly a lie so his heart doesn't betray him, and Talia Hale nods resolutely, like her son's happiness is the only thing that matters, and leaves without even a look back.


	7. Chapter 7

On the day of the Hale's moon party, or whatever, Stiles is second guessing his choice to not go. It's ultimately Deaton who helps him decide by setting him down with a new pile of books he brought over from Morrell.

"So, exactly how far have you gotten in your training?" Deaton asks lightly, his eyes looking over his reading glasses at Stiles and his head titled to the side curiously.

Stiles knows how this conversation is going to go, but he opens his mouth anyway and admits with a squeak, "We skipped all of the basics and went right to the defensive stuff."

Deaton sighs despairingly, not even offering Stiles' face a sympathetic glance.

At the time, Stiles knew it was wrong to not train for months and years on the basics, had listened to Deaton's lectures on proper hand movements and feelings and beliefs and desires. Stiles had met other Sparks and he knew he was supposed to spend an entire year just focusing on his belief and storing his core energy, but other Sparks didn't run with wolves and have to fight Alpha packs or monsters.

He was a victim of circumstance, what can he say?

"You said I was strong enough anyway that if I just meditated in my personal time-"

"And did you meditate in your personal time, Stiles?"

Stiles knows it will be futile to lie to Deaton now. They've been living in the same space for three weeks. Stiles knows that Deaton wakes up at 3 am in a sweat and takes long showers and can't stand the thought of going to bed without checking every lock and line of ash in his apartment. Deaton knows Stiles leaves messes during the day because he likes the house to feel lived in, and will always make sure it's clean before he passes out no matter how dirty. They've developed a strange kinship over their short time together, one Stiles never thought he'd have with the vet, and so he shakes his head and admits to never having meditated in his life.

Deaton doesn't berate him, though, he just takes his glasses off and closes the book in his lap. He places it on the ground next to the pile of Stuff That Stiles Wants To Look In After He's Found Something Useful and picks up another from the shelf.

"Why defensive spells?" He asks, as he flips open the worn, leather book, "From what you told Talia, I'd have thought you would want something a little more... Aggressive."

Stiles smiles, and shrugs, "Don't get me wrong, I can kick ass as well as a werewolf. I can make fire and electricity, and when I left we were studying my focus on earth. Since I had a pack of werewolves at my beck and call it just didn't seem like I needed more, you know? They had claws and teeth and speed, but when I started learning you said it would be better if I focused on defending us? I basically just stood in the back and did some quick healing stuff. I'm also pretty good at areal wards.

"I put one over the entire preserve one time when we were being chased by Goblins," Stiles' grin widens at the memory, at the instinctual magic that pulled itself from him. He could still remember the feeling of pressing his hands deep into the dirt of the Earth despite the pack telling him to run, can practically feel the thrum that pulsed inside him as he closed his eyes and willed every ounce of belief he had into the land.

And when he'd gotten up, the Goblins that'd been chasing him were trapped two feet away from him. Erica and Isaac followed them as they ran around the entire perimeter of the town to get at them, but there was no weak point they could exploit.

"It was flawless," Stiles summarizes in an awed voice, "It was like an out of body experience."

Stiles is surprised when Deaton matches his smile, "That was the moment your magic must have settled in you, then," He nods sagely, "It's your soul choosing exactly how your stronger magic will be used in the future. With you it's protection, I imagine. When it happened with me, I was fighting with a Fae creature that wanted to take my sister. I was twelve."

Stiles suddenly remembers his first meeting with Laura and Derek, and raises an eyebrow, "Derek said there hasn't been a magic user in Beacon Hills in centuries."

"There hasn't. I'm from Oregon, and your mother was from San Diego. You're the first spark to have been born here in a hundred years, Stiles."

There's a wave of peaceful silence as both men bond over the experience, and then, "I like you," Stiles decides without permission, shocking himself and Deaton as the words slip from his mouth. At Deaton's inquiring stare, Stiles suddenly finds his shoes very interesting, "I just- future you didn't like to share stuff like that. You'd just say something vague and annoying and leave me to figure things out myself."

Deaton raises an eyebrow, "Do you think it could have something to do with you appearing here and me telling you all of this now?"

Stiles releases a puff of air in annoyance and pulls at his hair. "I don't know? Maybe? If I think about it too much I just go in circles and it's annoying," He whines like a child. Stiles snaps the book shut and puts it in the useless pile before curling up on himself a little, too tired to read anymore tonight. "Time travel doesn't really have any set perimeters, that I've been able to find. If anyone has ever done this, then they didn't document it in any of these books, which is kinda stupid don't you think?

"But, it could be of them just not wanting others to meddle with time and change things? Or maybe this is all meant to happen anyway? Maybe this isn't even real and I'm in some weird coma." Stiles hiccups a laugh, "Or, maybe I'm just meant to fade from existence."

It isn't until Deaton places a comforting hand on his shoulder that Stiles realizes there are tears falling down his face. It's not full blown sobbing like he'd been doing a few weeks ago, back when everything was new and fresh, but they feel like a resignation, like he's giving up, which he's not. He swipes at them in anger until his face is red and his eyes are puffy, but at least he's not crying.

After a beat of silence, Deaton says softly, "Do you think you're supposed to be here?"

Stiles shrugs, "I don't know? Sometimes I do, and it feels right like I'm back in my own time, but then I turn around to look at Scott's reaction to something or reference something that happens years in the future and I just feel so out of place."

Deaton hums thoughtfully, then asks, "Would it be such a bad thing if you changed the course of history?"

Stiles doesn't even blink at the question, having rolled it over his head only days before, "I think, maybe, things would be better? Like, sometimes I think I'm supposed to and I just want to warn someone, but then I'm afraid of saving everyone from the wrong thing and something even worse comes to take its place? And then I wonder why would I be sent back? Why would that demon want me to do this, you know? Demons aren't really known for saving the world or anything. I figure if it sent me back it just wants me to do its dirty work and destroy the time line."

The hand on his shoulder tightens in grip, "Stiles, are you one hundred percent sure that it was a demon?"

"Well, it looked like a demon and acted like a demon. I don't really see what else it could be?" Stiles remembers how it laughed at Lydia and him for chanting at it, how it blew their circle apart with ease, and he's decidedly less sure. It had been doing everything demon's did, though, and it was terrorizing the town for weeks before Lydia was able to track it down.

In a flash Deaton abandons him on the couch and is hastily looking through the shelves in his secret room, "Maybe we've been looking in the wrong place this entire time."

Stiles grimaces at the hopeful look on Deaton's face. He tries to ignore the churning inside him, the mild anger that feels like someone is just poking at him with a needle. "Or, maybe I've just been sent here to ruin the time line and trigger the apocalypse."

Deaton rolls his eyes, still looking for a specific book, "I know you don't believe that. If you did, you would have avoided the Hales at all cost, and you wouldn't even be talking to me right now."

Stiles rolls himself off of the couch and walks over to stand next to Deaton, pouting at the man because he knows he's right.

"What would your Derek want you to do?" Deaton asks suddenly, as he pulls out a book and studies its index.

"He'd want me to keep looking until I had something more solid than an instinct." Stiles supplies, but even as he says it, he knows it's a lie, know as soon as he would have admitted to having doubts that Derek would have dropped a hand on his shoulder and told him to do what he thought was best, because Derek was more wolf than human, because Derek was raised to trust his instincts no matter what, because Derek trusted Stiles.

And that? It decidedly hurts, because he wants that back; their easy camaraderie, their partnership. He fought for that trust. He struggled to get Derek to accept him into the pack and to look at him as more than a human and Scott's best friend. He's so tired of everyone here looking at him like he's some magical spirit guru, like he's a stranger. He wants his friends back. He wants his pack and he wants their security. He needs them, needs them now more than ever.

Deaton rest a careful hand on his shoulder, drawing Stiles out of his trance. Stiles looks down and sees that his hands were curled at his sides, shaking, and he can feel the small zaps of electricity zipping between the tips of his fingers.

"I know this has been stressful for you," Deaton says, and his eyes are more gentle then Stiles has ever seen them, "I'm not going to say I can even begin to imagine what it feels like, but I know you're in pain, Stiles, and I know I want nothing more than to provide you with the answers you seek."

Stiles is drained. He's been emotionally exhausted ever since he got here, and he's too tired to fight Deaton as he guides him back to the couch.

"Now, rest. Tomorrow we're going to try something different."

There's a knocking at the door, and Deaton leaves Stiles sitting on the couch to get it. Whomever it is, they're speaking in low voices, but Stiles can pick up a few scathing words here and there. He tries to ignore it, maybe it's a neighbor telling them to keep it down or something, but then Deaton is grunting and out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see him being pushed aside.

Stiles has never been alone with the man in front of him, but he can remember him sitting at the able next to Talia on Stiles' first day in the past. Laura had described him, but she never mentioned just how much he and Derek look. Rand Hale is suddenly there, standing in the doorway. His eyes narrow as he sees Stiles, and Stiles can see a hint of blood on his shirt. His eyes widen a fraction, mouth dropping open as he sees it.

And then he's being hauled up and pushed against a wall. It's a move Stiles should be used to, considering Rand's son in the future has done it numerous times, but then Rand snarls in his face. And Rand's a human so that shouldn't be possible, but he's a werewolves mate, so maybe he's picked up a few things.

His hazel eyes drill holes into Stiles', and he looks like he wants nothing more than to carve out his heart and feed it to his family.

"Talia's been shot. Did you know that, Stiles?" Rand asks, and then he smiles a toothy smile that looks more like Derek when he barred his teeth, and Stiles is suddenly thrown back into the wall. His head hits it with a harsh thwap, and Stiles fights the groan of pain that swells in his throat. "Of course you did!" Rand roars, and Stiles shrinks back at the sound.

What? How could Talia be shot? Kate isn't supposed to murder them for another few months, and even then she doesn't resort to bullets or arrows or anyth- Oh. How could he forget searching for a cure with Scott? Talking to that doctor? How could he forget the werewolf that got sent to the hospital?

Now that he remembers, he knows it was Derek and Talia in the picture file he saw. Knows it because he's seen them, and, of course it was them, how could it be any other werewolves in Beacon Hills but the Hales?

But it doesn't make sense. Why is Rand yelling at him for this? Why is it happening now? Stiles wraps his hands around Rand's wrist, trying to get him to release his grip on his shirt.

"Look, I don't know what you're talking abou-"

Rand quickly cuts him off, "You do. I know you do. I can see it your face. You knew that there were hunters prowling around, didn't you? You knew Talia would get shot. You didn't even warn us-"

Stiles is not letting Rand blame this on him, especially when he literally just figured this out. Stiles glares at him and pushes feebly at his chest, "Talia wouldn't want me doing anything to disable the time line! Look, she's fine so what does it even matter?"

"She got taken to the hospital! We're risking exposure, and that arrow might be in her arm, but do you know how close it was to her heart?" Rand shakes him again, more violently, and Stiles feels nauseated because he knows what Rand is going through. He's had to dig arrows and bullets out of his pack, had to administer wolfs bane and pray they made it through the night and berate them for getting hurt at all. He knows what it's like to be the human in a pack of wolves.

"She almost died because of you and your stupid, childish need to preserve your sham of a future!" Rand bellows, and Stiles shrinks back. He could easily escape him, he knows. Could easily overpower him with his magic and ask him to leave, but it's like the fight has drained out of him because it's the truth. Stiles may not have been aware of this situation, but he knows about the one that's coming. He knows where Derek goes on the weekends and after practice. He could tell Talia or Rand or Laura or any of the Hales and they could stop it.

Stiles can't stop Rand from yelling at him, because every time he looks into his eyes all he can see is Derek. Derek yelling at him, Derek knowing he could have stopped him from falling for Kate Argent, Derek hating him for not saving his family, and Stiles just wants to tear his hair out and barf and maybe throw himself off of a cliff because of all the deaths that are going to be his fault.

Is this why Derek was so cold to him those early months of Scott being turned? Derek couldn't have known though. Stiles can't picture Derek sitting up with him on early Sunday mornings and drinking coffee and making breakfast, can't see Derek saving his life time and time again, can't see him letting Stiles drag him to boring movies on pack nights if he blamed Stiles for his families death.

Rand shakes him again. His face twist in disgust, like even looking at Stiles is cause for him to vomit his lunch, and drops him to the ground. Stiles falls and doesn't even try to stop himself. He feels like a black hole, like he's sucking everything in and killing all of it just for touching it. His body feels numb, but his mind is going over his every interaction with Derek in his time, searching for some clue that the man hates him for this, hates him for these deaths that he causes, but he can't find anything and he feels even more lost than he did when he showed up in front of Laura weeks ago.

Rand crouches in front of him, and he looks even more wolfish than all of the Hales combined. He lifts Stiles' head, and Stiles tries to squirm away, too ashamed to meet his eyes.

"You're greedy," Rand says softly, like it's a secret, "You're just a selfish child who's been given this opportunity to save my wife and children from a horrible death, and you won't take it because you want your own life back so badly."

Stiles flinches away from his words like a punch to the gut, and Rand drops his head. Stiles lets it fall, choosing to stare at the man's shoes because it hurts to even meet his gaze.

"I don't care who kills my family, or how, or why," Rand tells him, and then, harsher, like he's spitting the words, "As far as I'm concerned, you'll always be the one who murders us."

"That's enough, Randall." Deaton's voice is harsh and unforgiving, "You do not get to blame Stiles for events that aren't his fault."

Rand rounds on Deaton, yelling, "But he can stop it! Alan, you know that he can save us. I know that you talked to Talia just last week-"

Stiles throat clenches shut, and he leans over and reaches out for a plotted plant, only to empty the contents of his stomach in it. Rand watches him, looking at him like he's nothing better than sewer water, and it only makes Stiles gasp out for breath and sob like he's been gutted.

"I think it's time for you to leave, Mr. Hale. I'll be by shortly to check on Talia."

And then Rand is gone, striding out of the house without even looking back at Stiles.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath of air. He flexes his hands in front of him, breathing deep to fight off the anxiety attack he feels pressing in on him. With a hint of desperation, Stiles asks the room, "Do you think I'm a terrible person?"

His voices is rough and cracks through the sentence, and he doesn't even have to lift a hand to his face to know he's crying.

Deaton doesn't look phased by the question. He pours a glass of water, like he did the first night he brought Stiles home like a stray. "No, I don't," He says carefully, "In the entire time you've been here, I've never seen you be anything less than kind."

Stiles chokes on a sob and swallows around the rock in his throat, "Then why do I feel so guilty?"

Deaton hands him the cup, his eyes sad, "Because, in a way, you are."

He lets the words wash over him, accepting them as the truth he knows them to be. He's guilty by default. What would his dad call him? An accessory for murder, just by having the knowledge that he does.

Stiles shakes out his head and his arms and forces himself off of the floor. He downs the cup of water in two gulps to get rid of the acid taste of bile in his mouth and drops the cup on the coffee table. He can't let this go on any longer than it has. He wants answers, dammit. He's tired of guessing and skirting around the issue, tired of feeling so sorry for himself when there are things so much bigger than him going on.

"What was that idea you had?" Stiles asks, and is proud that his voice doesn't shake.

It still sounds weak, but it's a start.

Deaton frowns at him, "Stiles, you've had a very emotionally trying day. Please, lay down and sleep and we'll try tomorrow-"

"Please," Stiles cuts him off with a beg. He looks at Deaton and tries to get him to understand. "I can't handle this anymore, so whatever you want to do just do it. Please."

Deaton eyes him skeptically, and whatever he sees must be enough because he sighs in defeat not a minute later.

"We can try to summon whatever brought you here. Maybe it can provide some answers," Deaton says as he opens the book he set down before Rand showed up. Stiles nods enthusiastically. Why hadn't he thought of that sooner?

"We're going to need some things," Deaton sighs heavily, "Get some chalk, four purple candles, and vial #9 from the closet. It should be in the bottom right hand drawer under the box of cherub tears."

Stiles does as he's asked as Deaton roots around in the kitchen. Having already made himself well acquainted with the closet a week ago, Stiles is able to find the items easily. He wishes his Deaton could have brought him back to this place. The clinic isn't nearly as well stocked as it should be. Stiles tells Deaton this as he loots the items back over to the kitchen counter, but Deaton doesn't respond.

He takes the vial of mountain ash wordlessly from Stiles' pile. After popping open the lid, he pours it in a bowl and mixes it with salt, whispering under his breath all the while.

"Did we ever get to lessons about rituals in your time?" Deaton asks as he pulls out another bowl and a rack of herbs.

Stiles shakes his head, "No, uh, you left that kind of stuff to Lydia and she would only tell me stuff on a need to know basis."

Deaton looks annoyed but accepts the information. Lydia knew Archaic Latin and was always the most logical choice for that sorta thing anyway.

"Grab that book and open to page 930. Start at the top and keep going until the end of page 932."

The book is leather bound, like a journal, but is as thick as his throat. It's all hand written in slanted cursive, and the pages are a dried yellow and smell like drywall. Some of the early pages are water trodden, and stick together and blur the words, like someone was trying to erase information.

"Where do you even find all of these books? You never told me."

Deaton shrugs, "Most are passed down through the family. My sister keeps careful archives of our kind and is usually able to step in when the family line ends before the books are sold to people who don't know what they're for." He stops, suddenly, and then turns to look over his shoulder, "She hasn't decided what to do when your mother passes though, forgive me. I believe they should still be in your house, if you ever feel like looking."

Stiles gulps and looks away from Deaton. He didn't know he had family books. God, there's so much his mom never told him, so much she could have taught him. He could probably get them now, easily. His mom is in the hospital, and his dad is usually either at the station or there. He pushes it from his mind, not wanting to think about that connection to his mother now. He turns back to the book.

* * *

**(This ritual is used to call upon a spirit that the user knows almost nothing about. It consists in having prepared five lit candles, either purple or red, at the ends of a a ritual circle (diagram below) drawn in either chalk or blood (the casters blood would be more potent). A bowl with herbs, Agrimony, Damiana, Mistletoe, Chamomile, and Desert Sage, in that order, should be mixed together and then placed in the centre of a circle made of salt and mountain ash (These should be added in equal parts and placed around the edge of your circle for maximum protection).**

**The performer should then recite the following incantation in Latin: "Qua invocaverimus te / vos spiritum potentem / Quamquam ignoremus nomen et genus / Et exaudi nos hoc audire".**

**While doing this, the summoner must think very hard about this creature. Recall your senses to call this spirit to you. You must trust yourself, for you run the risk of calling another.**

* * *

The rest of the page continues on with measurements for the circle, the herbs, and even details what one should do if they find themselves with a truly horrifying creature instead of the chosen summons.

Stiles wants to bang his head on the table. This is why he hates rituals. There's always so many blind spots where things can, and will, go wrong. He gets a flash of the demon breaking the circle, of it throwing everyone back and their bodies flopping to the ground, and shudders.

Lydia's ring was only made of salt. Maybe that's why it didn't work the first time? It's not like Lydia to forget such an important detail, though. But that was a banishment ritual, wasn't it? And this one is a summoning. Stiles' head hurts, so he quietly closes the book and places it back on the table.

"So, this will work, right?"

Deaton shrugs, "I hope so. If not, then I'm out of ideas. Come help me move this rug out of the way, Mr. Stilinski."

Together, they clear the area and then Deaton settles on his knees to carefully trace a circle. He doesn't even need the books diagram, seeming to know all the lines by heart. His hands don't even shake, creating a flawless circle.

Stiles lights the candles and places them periodically around the edge while Deaton sprinkles the salt and mountain ash in his hands. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and then throws it up in the air. Stiles watches, and can see the moment where Deaton's belief takes hold and forms the ring before it falls to the ground.

"Do you know what you need to do now, Stiles?" Deaton asks, softly, and Stiles takes a second to breathe before he nods. Deaton smiles calmly at him, "It's easy. Just think about what happened, what you heard, smelt, saw, and repeat the words."

Deaton opens the book and hands it to him, nodding at Stiles as if to say, you got this.

And Stiles does have this. He can do it, knows he can, deep in his gut. It's not like he's been able to forget the demon, as every time he closes his eyes to sleep it's there again, murdering his friends.

So, he thinks about it. Remembers the way it appeared in Lydia's circle. A sickly black shape that seemed to take on the form of a human, if only a bit rough around its curled edges. The way it's mouth opened impossibly wide, just a pit of darkness in a forest of screams, before it swallowed him whole. Its freakishly cold hands, gripping his hip and shoulder, making him shiver and fight and scream as it ran a sharp, clawed hand down his side. The smell of blood and sand that clung to it, the sound of its voice as it whispered words in Stiles' ear, words he still can't remember no matter how hard he tries.

And when he opens his eyes, he knows they're a bit brighter than they should be, and he focuses them on the middle of the circle as he repeats the incantation flawlessly.

Then it's there, standing in Deaton's living room.

It looks the same as it did that night weeks ago, or is it years ahead? Its body is just a pit of pitch black, making Stiles' eyes start to fuzz as he stares at it, and its mouth opens in a dark grin. Its shape flickers and fidgets into focus as it stays still, looking Stiles up and down.

And when it speaks, it's voice is double tinged, like it's two people speaking at once.

"Ah, and what's this then?" It purrs, positively delighted as it looks at Stiles with its bright white eyelets, "Ring me up for a social call, deary? Or are you looking for a deal?"

It's like a man and a woman are speaking at the same time, both deep and manly and high and falsetto. The voice rings in his ears, and he wants to cover them with his hands but stands his ground. Stiles snaps the book shut and hands it to Deaton, who holds it with his arms folded behind his back.

"It's you, right? You're the demon who sent me here?" Stiles demands, arms crossed in front of his chest defensively. His hand unconsciously rubs against his side, remembering the feel of its claws slicing through his protection ward.

The thing cackles madly, and the sound of it makes the hairs on his arm stand on end, "Demon?" It sputters, and then goes back to laughing, "I'm no demon, child. I would never degrade myself to such filth. Demon's fear me, deary. They just have to see me coming and run themselves back down to hell."

It laughs again, arms wrapped around its stomach and head tilted back and if it had enough features, Stiles might say it would look gleeful.

"Give me a second to catch up, child. I was just in 1870 trying to convince my dear Esther Morris to thank me in her speech, a little joke between old friends, you know?" It grins, mouth impossibly wide in a way that makes Stiles want to take a step back, "Ah, let's see. It's... 2007. Correct?"

Deaton nods, "Yes. Now, will you be so kind as to tell us what you are?"

It cackles again, "Ah, you're so clueless! The last group that called to me didn't know what I was either. Although, it was 1692. People were a bit on edge back then, you understand don't you deary? Being a witch and all?" Deaton shifts uncomfortable at the smile it gives him. It's miniscule, but Stiles has never seen Deaton show any emotion but calm in the face of a threat, and it's enough to set Stiles further on edge than he already was, "Ah, dears, I'm a timekeep. I'm surprised you knew enough to summon me at all! My kind don't really leave enough hints to be caught unawares, you know?"

"Yeah, that's why you murdered all of my friends and sent me back in time, right?" Stiles says, snidely. He's never even heard of a timekeep, and from a look at Deaton, he hasn't either.

That seems to stop the timekeep. It finally stops smiling, stops laughing, and just stares at Stiles. It shrugs, "I know nothing of that. It seems you've caught me in my young age, gentlemen. Although, that is a bit odd. I don't make a habit of murder, you see. Too messy, no. My job is just to make sure all events are happening like they're supposed to. If I were to step in like that..."

Its eyes turn from a white to a bright orange, and it's mouth moves quickly, as if speaking to itself. Stiles and Deaton share an uneasy look and shuffle a few steps away from the circle.

Finally, its eyes return to their normal color, and it smiles brightly at Stiles as it laughs, "Oh my, I've been naughty, haven't I, dear?" It giggles, and then raises a hand, "Lift your shirt. Let me see the damage I caused."

He doesn't want to, especially with the predatory gaze the timekeep is sending him, but at Deaton's encouragement he pulls at the edge of his shirt and lifts it over his head. He lifts up his arm and gestures to the wound on his protection ward, still healing despite it being weeks since the accident.

If anything, the timekeep laughs harder, "Oh my, oh my! How fascinating. We've created a mess here, haven't we boys?"

Stiles feels an anger coil in his stomach, "You mean you created a mess here. I've done nothing!"

It throws its head back and a laugh rolls from its throat again. Stiles is getting so tired of this thing laughing, "Exactly! You've done nothing, boy! I don't know what happened exactly to cause these events, but I've obviously sent you back here to do something. Look at you," Its eyes shift to a bright gold this time, and it stares intently at Stiles' face. Stiles fights the urge to fidget from the look, "So desperate to get back to a future we've already destroyed. It's almost blank, from this point on, you know? A white slate!" It giggles inanely, "I've never seen anything like this before!"

Stiles' stomach lurches, "What, you mean, there's nothing?"

It shakes it's head, "No, time doesn't work that way. You, my boy, have created about five hundred alternate universes. Did you know that? Twenty are just from waking up this morning. Oh my, it's beautiful! There's so many ways this can play out! I've never seen such complete disregard for the rules!"

It stops, suddenly, as if stricken, and then looks at Stiles again. Its eyes shift back to white now, as it says, "Oh my. Oh, oh my. I've done something, horrible. Haven't I?" It's voice is soft now, almost like a child, "That's why I tried to clean up my mess. And then I must have seen you and decided it could be fixed."

"Why couldn't you just fix it on your own?" Deaton demands, "Why involve Stiles at all?"

It waves its hand in annoyance, "Old laws, old family rules, you understand, of course, the balance of the universe and all that. I can't pass my own time line. Whatever happened I must have had a bigger part in it than I thought at first. Oh my, boys, this just gets more twisted as time goes on!"

"I can fix it though, right?" Stiles asks, frantic now, "That's what you said. You said you sent me back so I could fix it."

"It's possible, but the time line will still be a mess in the worst way," It says, like an erotic moan slipping from it's throat, "Goodness me, what must I have been thinking?" Its eyes turn orange again, and then back to white. "There are several time points in this year that could easily be tampered with. You're close to one of them already."

"The Hales?" Stiles asks, and then something sharp twist in him, "You mean the Hale fire is supposed to happen?"

It twists its face unpleasantly, "The Hale fire was never supposed to happen. This is a fixed point in time, it shouldn't have been tampered with." It looks troubled now, hands flexing almost nervously, "Oh, dear, those poor creatures. What did I do?"

The words sink in slowly, in incriminates, until Stiles walks right up to the edge of the circle. His eyes are hard, a new resolve settled in him, and he says, "The Hale fire wasn't supposed to happen. That's what you mean, right?"

"Yes." It nods.

"And my future is gone. All of my friends, they're not there anymore, right?"

"I can't see them. At least, not in the way they were in your memories."

Stiles dutifully ignores that last bit and pushes on, "Would you send me back to where I came from if I asked?"

It's face twist again, "I could send you to 2013, but I can promise that it won't be the way you've left it. Whether you meant to or not, you've already interfered with this time. There are already fourteen changes to your original time line! My, my, my, it's all such a beautiful mess!"

Fourteen? Jesus, Stiles thinks. He hasn't even done anything since he's been here! How are there fourteen differences already? He just nods, though, the truth settling something within him. He's strangely at peace with this, now. He has his answers, and now all he needs is a plan.

"That's all I needed to hear." He says, and then, with a wave of his hands, the candles flicker off, the line of the circle is broken, and the timekeep is gone with one, final laugh.


	8. Chapter 8

It's not even seven hours later that Stiles finds himself standing just outside of the hospital, watching people shuffle in through the sliding glass doors and biting at the nail of his thumb.

He doesn't even know how he ended up here. Everything after summoning the timekeep feels like a static blur. Deaton wanted him to rest today, watch a movie or sleep some more, said that when he got home tonight they'd work on whatever half baked plan Stiles had sputtered out in gasps of excited air.

So of course he's doing the exact opposite, right?

And it's not like the bench he's sitting on is exactly comfortable, because it's not. It digs into his ass and he's shifted positions three times now, but anytime he gets more than a foot closer to the entrance he feels like he's going to vomit again.

After Deaton revealed his mom to be a spark too, Stiles had been half ready to go running off to the hospital to see her. The man had infuriatingly decided to not tell Stiles much more than 'she's just a spark, Stiles, go back to focusing on your work' whenever he tried to broach the subject again.

He doesn't even know why he's here. He should be out doing something, right? Setting some big, complex plan into motion to save the day? He's not even sure he has one anymore, though, which blows because he's always the one with the plan. Or, he's supposed to be.

He's been running the scenarios through his head all day and he still can't tell which would be the best course of action. Would telling the Hales about what's wrong set it all to rights? Does he have to find whatever loophole happened to make the set time suddenly change?

He glares at the ground as he recalls the timekeeps laughter, making mocking faces into the dirt. It definitely could've been more helpful, at least.

Someone behind him clears their throat pointedly, sending Stiles into a flailed roll off of the bench. Behind him, there's a short, old looking woman with a kind smile on her face.

"You should go in," She says, gesturing to the doors. At Stiles' disgruntled face she adds, "I know it's a scary place in there, but I'm sure whomever they are needs you more than you need your space. I bet you a dollar they're more terrified than you are, and I can guarantee you that they'll feel better surrounded by people they love."

Stiles desperately wants to argue with her, really, he does, but the look she gives him just makes him nod resolutely and stand, brushing imaginary dirt off of his jeans.

The woman watches him as he walks across the small stretch of parking lot and keeps on until the sliding doors slide shut behind him like a prison cell latching closed. Once he's inside, it's easy to navigate the way to her room. He could do it blindfolded. (Which he actually has before because he got this really weird paranoia of becoming blind when he was eleven. It was a weird time. Scott was nothing but an enabler because he liked to watch Stiles run into walls.)

It isn't until he's outside of her hospital room, door currently closed because an old guy with dementia walks the corridors after lunch and thinks that she's the long lost love of his life, that it really hits him.

His mom is behind that door. His mom who hasn't seen in six years, who he visits at her grave, her fucking grave, every weekend and after every lacrosse game. His mom who used to make caramel apples with him in the kitchen and has two boxes full of coloring books, pages splattered with perfect colorings, who made flashcards with him of police codes so they could fall asleep on his dad's late shifts, listening to the reports of robberies and the loud house parties and his fathers voice telling dispatch that he'd be there.

Stiles pulls his hand back from the door and just stares at the handle blankly.

If he does this, he can't go back. He'll never be able to pretend that she isn't here, that she isn't behind this door breathing. He won't be able to pretend she's dead, that she isn't already dying. And what happens when she does die in eighty-two days? What will he do when that hole he keeps closed inside of him is torn open again?

The choice is made for him, though, when the door is quickly pulled open and a woman is shouting, "Ty bachorze! What have I told you about walking here when your father-"

She cuts herself off, mouth instantly snapping into a tight line. Stiles forgot how she looked in the last few months, always choosing to remember her with billowing hair down to her waist, face full with a healthy glow, that it's almost like a slap to see her so pale and fragile looking.

She doesn't look fragile though, hands instantly dropping to cross in front of her chest, a white shirt with two little blue hand prints stamped on it that he recognizes. They made it when he was in kindergarten, and he knows there's a really bad drawing of a teddy bear holding a balloon that he did when she was talking to another mom. Her face had brightened when she saw it though, instantly leaning over to press kisses to his cheeks.

She looks more like she's ready to bend him over and spank him than kiss him, though. Her eyes widen as she takes him in, and then her face instantly sours into a glare. She opens the door more and whispers harshly, "Szczęsny Stilinski get your ass in here right now młody człowieku."

Stiles feels his throat tighten, and he promised himself he wouldn't cry, not anymore, but he's dangerously close to it right now. No one but his mom and his grandma had ever been able to pronounce his name right. He never thought he would miss the tongue twister, so ready to change his name to Stiles rather than force people to butcher his name, but the sound of it makes his mom need to tug him into her room with her bony fingers to snap him out of his reverie.

For lack of anything better to say, Stiles rubs at the skin of his wrist she pinched and grumbles, "I seriously don't understand how you slip between Polish and English like that. You know I tried to take a Polish class at the community college in ninth grade and I had to drop out because it was so confusing?"

"You think Polish is confusing?" His mother slams the door shut, raising an eyebrow that looks exactly like his, "Try learning English. I still don't think your father was worth the headache, that damn beznadziejny człowiek."

And Stiles instantly grins because it's his mom and he's heard her complain about traveling all the way from Poland to be with his "idiot, American father" too many times to count. At his smile, Claudia's face instantly softens and she's sweeping him into her arms before he can even blink.

He's taller than her now, only by a few inches, but it's enough to tuck her head under his chin. His hands grip her tight, hugging her like he always wanted to when she was in the hospital and he thought she was too fragile. She squeezes him back just as hard.

After a few minutes, she pulls away and walks back over to her bed, untying the bandana around her head as she goes. She pulls it off and he's met with her bald head. It's a familiar sight.

"I'm glad to see you outgrew that buzz cut phase," She says as she carefully folds up her bandana. "You're a beautiful boy but your head is shaped weird and you really weren't doing yourself any favors."

Stiles blushes and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn't have any styling gel at Deaton's and it just stands on end in which ever direction it chooses.

"Excuse you," Stiles squawks, easily finding the chair next to her bed his dad has already broken in with his butt, "But I'll have you know we have exactly the same shaped head, mom."

He tries to ignore how good it feels to call someone mom again.

She grins at him, her chapped lips pulling easily into a smile he had forgotten about years ago. It hits him like a freight train. "Mine works with my girlish figure, kochanie. With you, it looks like a cracked egg."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Oh no, kochanie, that's what the drugs are for."

They share an easy smile. Stiles has never felt so bright, so happy. He can't recall a time where everything felt this right, just sitting here with his mom, her presence alone seeming to make everything better in his life.

So of course he has to ruin his delusion. Out of the corner of his eye he can see it, glowing faintly under the coat hook on the door. It's simple, probably the first ward he learned. It's one that detects auras and bathes the room in the light of the person if they touch the ward. Only the maker of the ward can see it, making it easily hidden. It's why she so readily accepted his presence, Stiles realizes, despite not being the small twelve year old he's supposed to be.

Claudia's watching him, amusement sparkling in her eyes,"Has my little Szczęsny been learning the ways of the iskra?"

Stiles looks back at her, frowning, "Iskra?"

Her smile instantly drops and her eyes widen a small bit. It's almost unnoticeable, but Stiles sees her hands tighten briefly. She instantly wipes away that look, smiling smaller now with something akin to acceptance and settles herself onto her bed, "Ah. I guess that answers that, then."

Stiles opens his mouth, head almost pounding with the suffocating feeling that he's said something wrong, but she quickly cuts him off, "So, tell me now, did you make a deal with a timekeep just to visit your mama? I hope you gave them something good, sweet one. Sending someone back in time is no small feat."

"You know about timekeeps?" Stiles asks, a frown settling over his face.

"Your dziadek called them woźny czasu," She says, "But yes, I know of them. Our family has a great rapport with them. My braciszek even had his life saved by one, so he says, but I don't really believe him. Your pradziadek is the special case. He actually fell in love with one, did you know? Almost proposed to it, too."

Stiles makes a face, trying to imagine getting to know the creature he met last night. He shivers slightly, remembering the double twinged voice and its ever changing eyes and its cold laugh that raked against his ear drums even after he vanished it.

"You never told me that story," He says, instead of the offensive outcry of 'why' burning on his tongue.

His mom shakes her head, "No, I suppose I didn't. I didn't think I would ever tell you. I didn't want you to know, kochanie. The power of an isk- spark is hard to control, and the duties that come with it are more a burden than a gift. I wanted you to have a life outside of such things."

Stiles eyes her, remembering his confusion at Deaton calling him a spark, remembering the embarrassment he felt when he learned that his training should have been started when he was ten, and says, "That wasn't really fair to me though."

"When you're a parent someday, you'll understand," Claudia nods sagely, a sad smile on her face.

Stiles chuckles bitterly, "If I even live that long."

She frowns, eyes roaming over his face in a nonstop motion, searching for anything that could have led to her bright eyed boy sounding so forlorn, "Come, Szczęsny, tell your mama what troubles you so."

And he tells her. He tells her everything, not even stopping to take a breath. He tells her everything he didn't tell the Hales, everything that's been piling on his chest until he feels like his ribs are going to collapse. And once he starts, he can't stop, and then he's telling her about his dads drinking after she died, about his panic attacks and the way they can't even talk about her without one of them breaking down. Every single thing he's kept hidden, from his dad, from Scott, from the pack, from the Hales and Deaton, from himself, it all pours out of him like a broken dam and he can't even filter out anything.

By the end of the story, his cheeks are flushed and he's been there for over and hour and his mom has tear tracks on her face.

Wordlessly, she scoots over on her bed and pulls back the cover.

Hospital beds have never been his thing. The mattress is like paper and the cover they have over it crinkles anytime you breathe. The blankets are too thin and itch and the pillows need to be fluffed every two minutes for any sort of support or comfort. But laying there, letting his mom run her hands through his hair and holding him to her, Stiles has never been more comfortable in his life.

Stiles must fall asleep because the next thing he knows he's being shaken awake.

"Szczęsny," His mom says once he opens his eyes, "Stiles, you have to get up. Your dad should be coming soon and I don't think either of us is ready to tell him why there's a teenager in my bed." Stiles groans and tries to hide his face under her pillow but she snatches it away from his face, "Do you ever change? Come on. Wstawaj, my little boy, or else I'll pinch you. I know where it hurts, too."

Stiles knows quite well that she knows where it hurts to pinch him and quickly scrambles off of the bed at the threat, landing with a groan in a pile of limbs on the tile floor. Claudia asks if he's okay, but he can hear her stifling her laughter so he doesn't take her concern to heart.

Her face appears over the side of the bed and he gives her a dirty look, making her laugh some more.

"You're like a cat!" She laughs, arm wrapped around her stomach, "Oh, kochanie, you really need to talk to yourself. The poor boy is too afraid to even look at me wrong, let alone glare at me."

Stiles instantly feels every happy feeling leave him like a balloon floating away. He remembers what he was like the months before his mom died, quiet and scared, too afraid to even touch her. He remembered that he gave her headaches, back when her diagnosis was new and they didn't have her on medication, and he tried to sit in the corner and not speak. He didn't know his mom cared then, didn't know he wasn't helping her.

"Yeah," Stiles says, getting up from the floor, "I'll be sure to pencil him in between saving millions of lives."

"Don't let your ego get too big. It's more like hundreds."

Stiles just gives her a look.

Claudia throws her hands in front of her, "Okay. Fine. You're going to save millions of lives. You're a modern day Baseballman."

Stiles lets out an exasperated breath and narrows his eyes at her, "Batman. Mother. I am Batman. We have been over this-"

She winks mischievously at him, "Whatever you say, Bluejay."

"It's Robin!"

"Whatever."

The small groan of frustration is down right loving, and without his own permission, he sighs, "I've really missed you."

It seems to sober her up and her face falls for a few seconds. She nods, sitting upright in her bed and playing with the skin around her thumb. It's a nervous habit he picked up from her.

After a minute she seems to nod to herself, face settling into some kind of resolve that looks almost wrong on her and she says, "Guestroom closet. On the top shelf there's a box, and behind that box there's another one. There should be some books your babcia left with me. You'll have to ignore the poetry, your pradziadek was a hopeless romantic. Get the books, and maybe your job will be easier."

Stiles makes a face, "Are they all in Polish?"

Claudia smiles, it's small and barely there but Stiles doesn't know what else to call it, "Good thing you took that community college class, right?"

"Dropped out," Stiles clarifies. "Dropped out."

She waves a hand, "It doesn't matter. You're a smart boy. I'm sure you'll figure it out. Now, come here and let me kiss that face because you have about five minutes before your papa gets here and I am so not letting him think his wife is having an affair with some young thing."

"Oh, but it's perfectly fine if he thinks you're having an affair with an old thing?"

His mom smirks, "Shut up and come here."

Stiles does as she says, and he hates every minute of his walk to the door. The door closes behind him with a click that feels too loud, and the sliding glass doors open too quickly.

He passes a small boy with a buzz cut and moles. He doesn't stop to say anything.

* * *

Notes:

~thank you Weronika and Ann-i-ka for being an amazing person~  
Ty bachorze– You brat  
młody człowieku – young man  
beznadziejny człowiek - hopeless man  
kochanie – sweetie, sweet one, sweetling, etc.  
iskra - spark  
dziadek - grandfather  
woźny czasu – time caretaker  
braciszek - brother  
pradziadek – great grandfather  
babcia - grandmother  
Wstawaj – get up


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles knows his mom is an evil genius, but the timing works out way too well.

Or maybe the Hales really have been trailing him. Stiles won't pretend to understand.

Derek is sitting on the same bench Stiles was only a few hours ago, thumbs moving rapidly over the scrunched keypad of his flip phone. Stiles is sympathetic to those thumbs, recalling when he became a latchkey kid who had the mature responsibility of walking all the way home from work and thus needing a cellphone for emergencies. The only emergency that ever erupted was the time it went off in class because his dad accidentally butt dialed him and when Jackson decided it would be fun to throw it off of the tallest slide on the playground.

But, that's a story for another day. And different company, because Stiles has somehow sat down right next to Derek without him even blinking. It's like he's in another world, hitting key after key to compose a- Stiles peeks over his shoulder, instantly regretting being nosy because he definitely didn't need to see Derek Hale sexting with Kate Argent.

Stiles gulps down whatever bile had been climbing its way up his throat and places a hand on Derek's shoulder.

He practically jumps at the touch, phone snapping shut almost guiltily, Stiles fights the urge to tell him it was too late and that, yes, he had read exactly what Derek wanted to do to Crazy Kate's nipples. Nah, he much prefers to ignore the glare Derek is sending him and raises an eyebrow, "Dude, are you okay? Last time I tried to sneak up on you, you showed up behind me and knocked me to the ground."

Derek's nose twitches, which Stiles finds adorable because his Derek had managed to perfect the neutral bitch face and his nose would never think to do such a vile thing as twitching, and he squints his eyes. "I sound like a douche bag."

Stiles pats his shoulder sympathetically, belatedly realizing he hadn't moved it in the first place, "That you are. But I once saw you holding a door open for an old lady and then proceed to carry all of her groceries into her house and help her put them away though. So."

Derek doesn't look impressed by his future self helping old ladies. Stiles is offended on future Derek's behalf.

"You looked really annoyed the entire time though," Stiles assures. "You should have seen your face when she asked you to mix cookie dough for her because her blender broke. It was like you thought the chocolate chips were gonna eat you."

And there's the bitch face. Stiles was starting to think this kid was an alien or something. A happy alien, sure, but an alien none the less.

"Just how close are we in the future?" Derek asks suddenly.

Stiles shrugs, finally moving his hand from Derek's shoulder and looking at the expanse of the hospital. He can still remember making pancakes and eggs and forcing Derek out of bed on each of his fallen family members birthdays, remembers Derek doing the same for him when his own mom's birthday came around. They had lots of talks about family, trading morose stories and letting out bitter, broken laughs at each one. Derek told him almost everything, because once Stiles earned that trust from Derek, he never betrayed it.

It wasn't all secret sharing and happy fun times, though, and Stiles can still see that closed off expression anytime he tried to bring up Paige, the way his hands would twitch into claws whenever he brought up his doubts about Peter, how he still cringed away from the name Argent and hesitated with Chris' firm handshakes. Stiles got past the first layer, sure; farther than Scott or Isaac or anyone else had, but Derek refused to let him closer, refused to let anyone closer.

When someone has been bitten enough times, it's not surprising that they'd shy away from a dog.

But Stiles doesn't say that. This Derek is too young, too undamaged by life and its sick plans for him. So Stiles just shrugs and simply says, "As close as you'd let yourself be to someone, I think."

Derek looks like he wants to reply but then his phone vibrates. Stiles always thought Peter was lying when he said Derek was like Scott, never thought the creepy uncle could possibly be telling the truth, but the way Derek's eyes light up when he reads whatever Kate sent, Stiles is sonot making that mistake again, thank you, makes him think that maybe he never gave Peter enough credit.

Then he remembers that Laura said that Peter wants to torture information out of him and quickly retracts that thought.

And that reminds Stiles.

"Hey," He knocks his shoulder into Derek's, "How's your mom?" Derek doesn't respond, still typing away. Stiles rolls his eyes and juts his chin in the direction of the hospital, smirking, "Mine's dying, if you're curious."

His fingers still, expression dropping, and Stiles doesn't feel an ounce of guilt. He's not above shaming Derek away from Kate, he tells himself. It's just a means to an end, he quietly assures. It's not like his throat feels tight at the mention of his mom dying again. It's not like it hurts him to know that, even if he saves Derek's family, his will still be broken. Stiles has always been a big fan of avoidance.

"So is mine, if what Laura says is true," Derek bites out, eyes flashing blue before fading slowly, so slow that Stiles knows it's on purpose, back to hazel.

If he looks a bit put out at Stiles not being shocked or afraid of his super-scary-and-obviously-intimidating eyes, Stiles doesn't mention it.

"Like you're so worried about it," Stiles snorts, shrugging lightly, "Laura tells me you're almost never home anymore."

"Laura hasn't even talked to you in weeks," Derek shoots back, looking away and down to his screen again. Stiles quickly shoves off how much that reminder hurt. He wants to say it's only been two weeks, but it sounds pathetic even to him so he stays quiet. "And dad says you've already made your choice not to do anything. What's the point anymore?"

Stiles blanks at the mention of Rand, and suddenly he's overcome by the feeling of being pressed into a wall, Rand's face in his, shouting at him and blaming him for something he didn't even do.

"Exactly!" He remembers the timekeep hissing at him, "You've done nothing!"

Stiles hates everything, he decides.

He shakes his head, trying to clear out the memories of last night that seem to want to suffocate him, and looks at Derek.

"If you're done being an angsty teenager...?" Stiles smirks as Derek just glares at him, and he wonders if Derek thinks he's above angsty teenagery things because he's dating an older woman. The thought makes him sick. Knowing that his Derek wouldn't hesitate to punch him in the face for making that comment only makes him more sick. "I actually need to talk to Talia. Call a pack meeting. Sound the alarms. Howl to the moon and all that."

Stiles was one of the few pack members to actually like pack meetings. He loved the excuse to hang out with all of them, even if they usually had to talk about whatever life threatening, power hungry asshole they had to deal with. Mostly because it resolved into a royal bitch fest of complaining that ended up with them watching some crap television and ordering ten boxes of pizza.

Derek's debit card had truly been a treasure. Since Stiles has been borrowing Deaton's clothes since he got here, Stiles really doesn't think he appreciated the pack funds as much as he could have in his time.

He really doubts the Hales pack meetings will be anything like that, though. Talia seems to have more of a hold on her betas. Not that Derek was a bad alpha, once he got over a few of his issues upon issues, just that he thinks being the mom and the alpha gave her words more weight.

The fact that he didn't have Hales bothering him about the state of the future for the past three weeks is more than proof of that. Scott would have broken down within three hours. Erica probably would have knifed the bastard as soon as they admitted to having knowledge of futurey death things.

Stiles ignores the dull ache in chest. He has to remind himself that they're gone, that he's mourning the loss of people who don't even exist anymore. The timekeep told him that 2013 isn't anything like he left it, even said it was changing with every decision Stiles made. Like that wasn't a lot of pressure, or anything.

Derek doesn't look ready to sound any alarms, much less howl to the moon. Stiles is disappointed and he decides that he doesn't like this Derek at all. This Derek is an asshole, no matter how innocent and happy he looks. He wonders if it's just Kate's influence on him making him act like this, or if Derek is always just this much of a teenager. This Derek is really lame and apparently self absorbed and Stiles kinda just wants to kick him off of the bench.

He doesn't, though, because that would be undignified of a time traveler of his stature. Instead, he sniffs, resolving to get Deaton to set up a meeting with Talia or something, since that's his job, and nudges Derek with his shoulder again, "What are you doing here anyways? Is Laura around? Did she send you to stalk me while she humps her boyfriend?"

Derek snorts, "No, she kinda gave up on you," Stiles flinches back like Derek just stabbed him in the heart with a claw. Derek doesn't look guilty at all about the reaction, that bastard, "I'm actually waiting on someone and not being creepy."

Stiles is very proud of himself for not breaking down in hysterical laughter. He deserves a medal, he decides, a big shiny one that says "Worlds Best Time Traveler". Honestly. Look at the shit he has to put up with.

"You say that like I'll actually believe it," Stiles says. Derek rolls his eyes like he would rather saw off his own arm than be here. Oh, does Stiles have a story for him. "Whatever. Is it someone I know?"

"Well you seem to know everything about me so, probably."

"You make it sound so stalkery," Stiles narrows his eyes, "Sorry, buddy, I'm just a simple man forced through time to fix everything wrong in the world."

Derek looks up quickly, almost knocking his head into Stiles', "Wait, what? I thought you weren't going to do anything?"

"I had a sudden... revelation of sorts."

Derek doesn't look at all convinced, but he hasn't gone back to texting so Stiles considers it a win. "A revelation."

"A revelation." Stiles confirms. "One that I'll be more than happy to share with you at this pack meeting that you still haven't called for somereason."

Derek looks between his phone, the door of the hospital, and Stiles' face. Sties doesn't really like how expressive this Derek is. Well, of course he likes it, it's cool to not have to become fluent in eyebrows, but it's just so different. Those bushy brows have hardly had an action. Stiles can't tell if he's disappointed or not.

He types out a quick message on his phone, sighing like the world is out to get him. Stiles doesn't bother a sympathetic pat. His Derek would take a lot of pleasure in beating the crap out of this one, Stiles decides. He can't hold off his curiosity and is happy to see that it isn't a sext, but some crappy explanation about having to leave suddenly. Seriously. 'I left the shower on- gtg'. So unimpressive.

When he sees Kate's name in the top corner of the screen, well, Stiles is less happy.

His back goes straight, head on a swivel to look for hide or hair of that she-devil. Why is she at the hospital? Why is Derek waiting for her at the hospital? His heart pounds quickly, causing Derek to look at the general area of his chest intensely with confusion.

"We gotta go," Stiles says distractedly, still watching the doors with laser like focus, "Come on."

Derek follows him up and leads him back to his car, the same one Laura was driving the day Stiles showed up in the past. It feels wrong to see Derek drive something that isn't the Camero, to see him in some hand me down car that probably can't get over eighty.

Stiles doesn't comment though, still looking for Kate. He doesn't know what he'll do if he sees her. Stiles always hated Kate, was always happy that Peter slit her throat, until Derek told him exactly what his relationship with Kate was. Her death was too quick, he decided. Peter agreed with him. Stiles used to have to leave the room anytime she was brought up, so furious that he couldn't control his magic and short circuited the TV and half the lights in the house.

He bought Derek a new TV, but no one brought up Kate around him again.

"We need to make a stop at my house," Stiles says as he bites away all of his warnings of staying away from Kate. He needs to make a plan. He needs to talk to Talia. He needs to know what the fuck he's doing but he has no clue.

Derek starts the car and backs out of the parking lot, "Deaton's is twenty minutes away from my house. Can't you just go there after?"

"No, I mean my house house. The Stilinski house. It's like five minutes away, okay? It won't take long."

"Am I helping you break into the Deputy's house, Stiles?"

"Depends on how you define breaking in," Stiles shrugs, because he knows where his dad keeps the spare key and he knows the kitchen window is always unlocked and he knows that the garage door opens if you jimmy the handle a few times.

Is it breaking in if it's your own house? Stiles decides it's not.

"Besides," Stiles soothes, because Derek looks ready to call off the whole endeavor and go sit and wait for Kate again, "He's visiting my mom. He won't be home for hours." Derek still doesn't look convinced, so he adds, "Just trust me, okay?"

And feels like he's just been hit upside the head with a wrench when Derek still looks unsure.

Derek opens his mouth to speak but Stiles doesn't give him the chance, can't hear Derek's voice tell him that he doesn't trust him. He reaches over and clicks on the turn signal and then presses down on Derek's leg- hard. The car lurches forward, making him unsteady and he his his head on the window.

Derek growls at him over Stiles' groan of pain, like he would have at Isaac for saying something stupid during a pack meeting, but Stiles only rolls his eyes.

Thankfully, Derek doesn't kick him out of the car and tell him to go die in a ditch and dutifully drives to Stiles' house.

It doesn't look any different. Like, at all actually. It's painstakingly the same. If Derek wasn't sitting next to him, all baby faced and annoyed, then Stiles wouldn't even know he was six years in the past.

He tells Derek to wait in the car, because he should only be like two minutes, and Derek just takes out his phone. Again. Stiles wonders if he'll murder him if he throws his phone away. Maybe he can get away with deleting Kate's number. It's something to think about, certainly.

He doesn't feel like shimmying through the window, so he gets the key out from the fake slat above the door. It slides in easily.

The first thing he notices is that there are dishes in the sink. Dishes. With food still on them. Stiles' fingers itch to clean them. He remembers that it takes him a few months to grow into the hollow roll his mom left when she went to the hospital, that it took him a while before he learned that his dad didn't know how to do laundry and that he never bought in bulk at the grocery store and left the coupons in the morning paper like an idiot.

He does pick up the bowl of cereal and put it atop the steadily growing pile and roll up a bag of opened chips on the coffee table, though. He may also move a pillow and fold the blanket on the end of the couch, remembering how his dad slept downstairs for months after his mom died. He couldn't handle sleeping in his bed alone. Stiles would sometimes crawl downstairs and sleep in the arm chair or on the floor, but when he woke up he would always be back in his bed again.

Stiles leaves the basket of laundry alone though. Little him will have to learn the hard way to not let his dad mix colors and whites. The struggle will give him character.

There's an opened bottle of Jack on the coffee table. The lid is nowhere to be found, but the bottle is almost empty anyway. He remembers his mom's face when he blurted out about his dad's drinking, and something in him flares up. Before he can even think, he's lifting up the bottle and draining it in the sink. He very deliberately puts it back exactly where he found it. He does the same with the four bottles under the sink, carefully screwing the tops back on and putting them back.

This Stiles won't grow up with his dad drowning his sorrows in alcohol. No. This Stiles won't use alcohol to get information out of his dad. Not if Stiles can help it. They'll actually talk about his mom. If he's changing the time line he's doing this right.

He makes a mental note to come back next week and check again and starts heading up stairs, fighting the urge to sort out even more things that current him will be too young to process.

The guestroom is about as boring and plain as it always is. White walls. White bedspread. No personal touches. Stiles' mom wasn't much of a decorator. She hated Ikea with a passion and anytime spent there was considered wasted time.

It's common knowledge in the Stilinski household that if you want to get rid of something but don't want to throw it away, you put it in the guestroom closet. It's a huge walk in that makes Stiles annoyed that it wasn't given to him as his room, since his own closet is a measly sliding door one, but, whatever. The attic is already filled with enough crap, and his pack rat parents really didn't need the extra space. Stiles just considers them all lucky that no one got the bright idea to just turn the guest room into a storage room.

The box is exactly where his mom said it would be. It coughs up dust when Stiles moves it and it reeks of his grandma's perfume. It's taped shut so Stiles can't look through it, which is probably for the best since he'd probably just end up sitting there all day and end up getting caught by the Sheri- Deputy.

Time travel sucks.

On his way out, he steals two of his dad's shirts from the laundry room. They're ones from a marathon and the academy, ones he only uses on laundry day or when he's just running to the convenience store. Stiles steals them in the future anyways and his dad doesn't notice, so he just throws them over his shoulder. He's so tired of wearing Deaton's clothes and he smiles to himself, excited to have something that's so normalfor once.

He makes sure to lock the door behind him and puts the key exactly where he found it. He's confident that his dad will blame the moved blankets and dishes and bottles of alcohol on his younger self since he was home alone all day. He also probably won't yell at Stiles for dumping out the Jack.

Oh well. It's not his problem, right?

Derek is exactly where he left him, frowning down at his self phone. Trouble in paradise? He wonders. What exactly was Kate doing at the hospital? There's nothing evil or villainy at the hospital, right? He shakes his head, thinking that it's irrelevant.

Stiles taps on the drivers side window and Derek bolts upright, phone snapping shut with an audible snap. Stiles thinks it's broken, but Derek doesn't look too concerned with it. He rolls down his window, glaring at him.

"You're an asshole," Derek seethes.

"It's part of my charm," Stiles shrugs, opening the back door to put his box and shirts in."That's like the second time I've snuck up on you dude," Stiles says, squinting his eyes at Derek, "You okay? Everything alright with the old werewolf powers?"

Derek manages to look annoyed and confused at the same time. It's a great combination, "I'm fine, Stiles. We don't actually use our abilities all the time. We can tone them down. You know that, right?"

Stiles just stares at him, "What are you talking about? It's like a born wolf thing."

Derek, his Derek, would suddenly jump out of the window if his dad was so much as two streets away. He could tell if they won lacrosse games just by how they smelled the next time he saw them. He could smell when cookies were perfect to take out of the oven, for fucks sake. Why would Derek be that on all the time if he could control it?

But Derek just stares at him like he's speaking nonsense and shakes his head slowly, "We can control it. How do you think we can all live in the same house without dying of embarrassment?"

The answer hits him suddenly. It makes him take a step back with the force of his realization, because he fucking understands and he knows first hand. Derek was hyperventilate. He had PTSD. Which, really, it all makes so much sense. Stiles runs a hand through his hair, pissed off beyond recognition because how could he not have noticed? How had Derek hidden it so well from him? Why hadn't he ever considered it?

Stiles is truck by the sudden sense of protectiveness he feels for Derek. He feels like he's been set afire with his rage, burning form the inside out. He wants to find them. Everyone. Kate, Jennifer, Peter. Everyone who has ever taken or stolen or lied or wronged that man. He can't even look at Derek's face without wanting to break into the Argent house and smother Kate with a pillow in her sleep or track down Kali's pack just to bury Jennifer alive and he wants to tear Peter limb from limb and scatter him across the globe and wrap him in twelve different types of wolfsbane and mountain ash.

He looks away from Derek's baby soft, confused face, hating the way his gut clenches as he thinks of Derek sobbing over Cora's dead body, the way he looked when Scott threw mistletoe on Jennifer, the haunted, distant expression anytime Stiles had to cook meat for dinner in his kitchen. He wants to take it all away, wrap Derek in an assortment of blankets and tie him to a couch and never let him watch anything but happy cartoons and eat ice cream, because the world is nothing but unfair and traumatizing to Derek, and Stiles will do anything he can to make sure that he never has to see him look anything less than ecstatic again.

Even if it means he has to light a few fires of his own, first.

He throws open the side door and gets in, slamming it shut behind him. Derek winces at the sharp slap of metal on metal.

"Drive." He demands, not looking at Derek.

Derek, seeming to pick up on his fury, quickly puts his phone away and starts the car without comment.


	10. Chapter 10

The Hale house is exactly like the last time Stiles saw it, so wholly and utterly different from the rebuilt one in his time. He glares at the brown rafters and the white columns and wishes back for the house his pack planned over and built with their own hands last summer.

As soon as Derek parks the car, Talia Hale is on the front porch, arms at her sides and eyebrow raised. She has a dishtowel in one hand, but she holds it like a weapon and her stance, while minute, is shifted defensively. She relaxes when she sees Derek and Stiles, surprise and confusion flittering over her features.

"Sorry boys," She says as the walk to the porch, both sharing 'what the fuck' looks with each other, "I thought I smelled someone I don't particularly like. I must've been mistaken."

Then she offers them an easy smile, a mother's placating one that they all seem to magically learn after they have kids.

Derek rolls his eyes and kisses her on the cheek, saying something about dinner smelling good. Stiles feels his chest constrict painfully, and it does nothing but firm his resolve.

This, he thinks, This is what I'm fighting for.

"How's the arm?" Stiles asks, nodding at her shoulder. He remembers Rand screaming in his face and tenses his shoulders to not hunch them in shame. Is Rand even home? He hopes not. He's running too high on adrenaline from his mom, from being close to Kate, from his revelation.

Talia waves a hand, "It's fine. I healed as soon as we got out of that ER. It's going to take a few days to shake a doctor, but it's nothing we can't handle. I didn't know you'd be joining us," Talia calls down from the porch, "Dinner won't be ready for another twenty minutes but we can make room if you're planning on staying."

"I'm actually here to talk to you, Mrs. Hale." Stiles fist his hands in his jacket pockets, trying to quell the shaking. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep his expression neutral, still not knowing what to say or how to say it. He should go back to Deaton's. He should translate those books. He should have asked his mom more questions. He should learn more about that timekeep before revealing everything to Talia.

But she nods at him and he knows it's too late to backtrack. He's not dealing with Talia Hale the mom anymore. He's staring right into the red eyes of an alpha, one of the most powerful ones on the West Coast, and she waves a hand at him, silently telling him to follow her into the house.

"Laura," Talia says, raising her voice only slightly. Laura walks out of the living room and into the foyer, not even sparing Stiles a glance. Her complete lack of acknowledgment burns him more than he anticipated. "I need to talk to Stiles for a few minutes. Do you think you could watch the spaghetti for me? You know how Cora gets if the meatballs are too well done."

Laura's eyes finally bounce over to Stiles and, before he knows it, he has an armful of Laura Hale. She's clinging to him, face stuffed between the crevice of his ear and shoulder. Her arms are wrapped so tight that Stiles swears he can hear his ribs creak, but he hugs her back as hard as he can.

"I knew you wouldn't do it," Laura whispers into his shoulder. If his shirt is slightly damp, neither of them say anything about it.

He doesn't respond though, just holds her tighter. He can't stop thinking about how broken she sounded last time he talked to her, how she had just completely given up and hates himself for putting her through that, for putting all of them through that. They had three weeks of sitting around, worrying about their mortality, and Stiles did nothing.

He resolutely ignores the laugh track of the timekeep in his mind, shoves it aside and pulls away from Laura. She graces him with one more blinding, bright smile before she's heading off into the kitchen.

Talia brings the phone down from her ear and snaps it shut. Stiles wonders how long Laura and him were hugging that she had enough time to make a phone call. She waves a hand and he takes it as a sign to follow her back to the study.

Stiles never spent too much time in the study back home. It was intended to be the research montage room but Stiles needed to have a TV on in the background if he was reading too much and Lydia preferred to sit on the porch to absorb, so it was mainly used as a storage room and a place for the land line (who even needed a land line in 2013?) and Derek's ancient desktop.

Stiles tried to take Derek to Best Buy one time to get a laptop for him. He'd never seen a salesperson cry so hard in his entire life.

While the walls of the future study are lined with barren shelves, this room is absolutely filled with books. Stiles longs to run his hands across the spines, pick them up and read all of the secrets of the Hale family. Peter had bemoaned the loss of 2/3rds of their library before, but Stiles had never really considered how much of a loss it was.

"This is amazing," Stiles gasps, eyes roaming over the walls filled to the brim with books.

Talia smirks beside him, "Yes, I suppose it is. This library has been passed down for four generations."

"And it's an absolute horror to photocopy," A voice drones from the corner of the room. Stiles turns his head quickly, the hair on his neck standing on end at the too familiar voice, and the sight he's met with his a man in his mid twenties sitting next to a Mac and a printer. He has a pile of books on a desk in front of him, boredly flipping through one in his hands. He looks up, eyes piercing and blue and Stiles feels his throat close up at the sight of them as Peter Hale smirks, "I suppose I should thank you for the warning, though. A month ago we only had a hundred of these saved. Our imminent death was quite a sign to get on with this."

Stiles and Peter both turn to Talia, and Stiles demands, "What's he doing here?" at the same time Peter asks, "Have you finally decided to torture him?"

Talia's teeth seem to bare at her brother on instinct and she growls, "No one is torturing him, Peter.

Peter just rolls his eyes and closes the book on his lap. Stiles, remembering what Laura said when she was sitting outside of Deaton's apartment, wonders if this is a frequent argument.

"What's he doing here?" Stiles asks again, trying to not look at the young face in the corner. It's weird to think of Peter as anything but an old, zombie werewolf with a gross goatee and a fetish for murder.

"He's my second in command, Stiles. I need him here for strategical reasons." Talia explains as she walks over to sit next to Peter. "I'm sure the Derek in your time had a second also."

Stiles doesn't mention that his Derek had trust issues upon trust issues and probably wouldn't have even had a pack if he didn't need the power.

"Besides," Talia adds with a smirk, "If I don't let him sit in he'd be listening under the window anyway."

"Just because you're a female dog, sister dear, does not mean you have to act like a bitch."

Stiles scratches awkwardly at his arm, trying to ignore how wrong it feels to see Peter like this, so domestic and fighting with his sister. Anytime he looks at him, all he can see is the red around his mouth while Cora's lifeless body bled out under him.

He closes his eyes and forces the image away. He can't do this if he thinks of Peter like that, can't help if he can't stop remembering the monster Peter is. He can't let himself be controlled by fear, not if he wants to make it through this conversation. It wasn't just the fire that made him insane, Stiles has to remind himself, it just made him worse at hiding it.

When he looks back up, Peter is staring at him intently, his too intelligent eyes looking at him in a way that makes him feel wrong and sick inside.

"I survive," Peter says suddenly, the wonderment and excitement in his tone shocking Stiles into going stock still, "Don't I?"

Stiles opens his mouth to deny it, to change the topic, to do anything but give away that information that he had been so careful to hide, when the door behind him opens.

Rand is there, sporting a familiar glare, and Stiles feels his chest tighten at the sight of him. Everything Randall said to him last night is still crystal clear in his mind, ricocheting in his ears anytime it gets too quiet.

Talia looks confused at Stiles, whose heart has been running amok since he saw Peter.

"No," Stiles says adamantly, on edge and close to jumping off, "No. I'm not doing this with him in here."

It's bad enough that Talia insisted on Peter but he can't tell Derek's story with two people in here who he doesn't trust. It already feels enough like a betrayal. There's no way he can do it if he feels out numbered. And, with a look at Rand, Stiles mentally adds threatened.

Talia looks like she wants to rise from her seat, "Stiles, he's my mate. He has to be here for this kind of conv-"

"No," He says again, glare not leaving Rand's face.

Rand is just glaring right back, "I'm going to be here-"

"No." Stiles makes his voice more firm, and he moves closer to the door, "You don't get to treat me like crap and then get to be here while I save your ass."

"You were going to let my family die!" Rand yells at him.

"I'm eighteen years old!" Stiles suddenly shouts, surprising even him, "I'm just a kid, you asshole! You shoved me against a wall and screamed in my face! I had no clue what I was doing, and I still don't! I don't need you here messing with my head." He lets some of his magic go, just enough that Talia and Peter will be able to smell it on him and know he's serious, "Now get out, or I'm going to."

"Randall," Peter calls, smirking softly, "I'm sure you know the preservation of this family is far more important than your ego. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

"I'll be sure to fill you in later," Talia says, and her voice is light but her face is set in a frown. Her features are slightly off, like they were caught mid shift and forced to stop. "And you **will** be doing the same with me."

Rand leaves silently with a distrustful glare. He closes the door behind him and the room practically tingles with the silence left behind.

"I don't know why you don't just turn him," Peter rolls his eyes, "He's more wild than some omegas I've dealt with."

Talia snorts delicately, "That's exactly why he doesn't want to be turned, brother dear. Randall as a wolf would be terrifying."

While they continue with their weird, sibling, snarky bonding, Stiles snatches up a pencil from Peter's desk. When he turns away, it feels like Peter is watching him, but when he peaks over his shoulder he's very much engaged in his debate with Talia.

Above a light switch next to the door, Stiles draws in a ward for silence. His pocket knife is buried in his pocket, burning to be taken out so the ward can be done properly, but he doesn't think the Hales will appreciate him mutilating their wallpaper. Derek certainly didn't when he attempted it when they were discussing the merits of torturing a hunter hostage.

(Stiles and Derek were in firm agreement. Scott and Allison were very much against it. Stiles and Derek unsurprisingly lost. Who even decided to let the moral code power couple in on that meeting anyway?)

When the silence behind him grows noticeable, Stiles says over his shoulder, "It's a silencing ward. It's so no one outside of this room can hear what we say. It should wash off, but it won't last long because of the graphite."

"The room is soundproof, Stiles," Talia assures.

Stiles snorts, remembering Isaac's disgusted face whenever Erica and Boyd snuck in there to 'look something up', "You say that like I haven't been in a pack for the past few years."

Peter huffs, "We were trying to keep that particular trick a secret, Stiles. Now how am I going to know what my sister is hiding from me?"

Talia quickly reaches over and slaps Peter on the arm.

Stiles finishes off the ward and drops the pencil on Peter's desk, sitting across from the Hale matriarch and her beta.

He takes a deep breath and, before he can rethink it, breathes out, "The Hales were locked in the basement on the night of the lunar eclipse and the house was set on fire. An Argent did it-"

"Didn't you say Gerard Argent has been sniffing around?" Peter cuts in, looking at Talia.

Talia nods, face set in stone, "He swore he was just here to talk to his doctor. The man reeked of death so I let him pass and the hunters from last night weren't part of their clan. I made sure."

"It's- it's not Gerard. Well, it's kind of Gerard? It's his daughter acting on his orders, but he doesn't really do anything to you guys. Right now, anyway." Stiles clarifies. "She has some accomplices that aren't hunters. I don't think they are, anyway. They just seemed like some sick pyromaniacs she convinced to help her out?"

"Derek and Laura were at a Basketball game and didn't get hurt. Laura became the alpha when you died. Peter dragged himself out through the tunnels and was found by a medic who was taking a piss. He was in a coma for six years and-"

Stiles cuts himself off, not wanting to say it, can't say it, not when he just hugged Laura ten minutes ago, especially not when he remembers the way Peter sounded when he realized he lives, the way he looked like the world was his oyster.

The silence stretches too long, Stiles trying to think if he should go all the way or just let the future stay buried where it is. Peter doesn't look affected. He just... stares at Stiles, like he's delivering the news of the second coming of Christ.

It troubles Stiles, makes sweat slick his forehead and his heart stutter. He needs to tell Talia, needs to tell her what her brother did to Paige and Laura and Cora and Lydia and, hell, probably tons of other people. But he can't do it with him there. If he plants that seed, if Peter finds out what he can do...

He looks away, looks at Talia who has her chin on her hand, "I just don't understand. Our kind has kept the lunar eclipse a secret for centuries. I've never met a hunter who knows anything about it. How'd she know?"

Stiles sighs, and he's never felt so tired in his life. He mentally pleads to Derek, his Derek, for forgiveness. He can remember their talk about Kate like it was yesterday. They were outside on 4th of July, Stiles cooking hamburgers while the pack set up fireworks to light above the forest, and Stiles said something stupid about how his mom burned her favorite wig once trying to light one of them, because that's what they did, share stories that no one else would understand, and Derek just whispered it to him, quiet and steady like he'd been practicing it for weeks.

Derek didn't stop until he was done, kept talking even when his voice cracked, and Stiles had never hugged someone harder.

He needs to, needs to tell Talia, but his throat feels like it's closing and he can't even choke the words out.

"Derek did come to me a few days ago," Peter murmurs contemplatively, "It was about mates. At the time, I thought it was about Paige. You know how that boy still blames himself," He adds, looking over at Talia. Talia nods, like Paige has been a topic they've talked about numerous times. "But his behavior has been off lately, hasn't it?"

It seems to click for both of them at the same time, and Talia's growl is so loud and threatening that Stiles thinks his balls crawl back inside of his body.

"That Argent bitch!" Talia roars so loud that Stiles has to cover his ears. "Forget the laws. Forget the Argents. I am going to tear that bitch apart!"

Peter's own claws are out, almost reflexively at the anger of his alpha, but he grips her wrist and tugs her down, "Yes, great idea Talia. Send their entire clan after us. You know how they get about their own being shed."

"She's manipulating my son- your nephew! You've smelled him lately, haven't you?" Talia growls, eyes flashing red then hazel and red again, like she can't keep herself under control. Stiles is very careful to not move. "I'm going to tear her throat out and drop it on that geriatric geezer's doorstep."

Stiles has never regretted telling someone about Kate Argent before in his life. Talia Hale, the most revered and well respected alpha, is nothing more than a frothing, rabid mom when confronted with this truth. He thinks of his own mom, of how she'd react if she found out one of his teachers was sleeping with him for information on her sparkness, and shudders minutely. God have mercy on their soul.

Stiles wants to record this, to somehow hand it to future Derek and say 'see? I told you she wouldn't blame you, dude'.

"Talia," Peter's voice is so hard it could cut glass, "You need to control yourself. I know your anchor is family, but you need to reign yourself in before you make matters worse. She obviously already has her claws in Derek. Killing her won't do anything but alienate your son and call a war."

"So, what?" Talia snarls, "Am I supposed to sit by and let her defile my son and use him for information?"

Her head stills, snaps up and stares directly into Stiles' eyes. They're wide and hazel and so, so, so horrified that Stiles wants to comfort her somehow. "He blames himself, doesn't he?" She asks, and her voice is soft and hard at the same time. Stiles nods, a quick jerk of his head, and she laughs bitterly, "Of course. My poor baby. That's just like him."

She sighs and drops her head onto her hand, "He always felt so much deeper than his siblings. I can't even begin to imagine how he must be like in the future."

"He's a lot different," Stiles confirms, trying to make his voice sound light when all he can hear is Derek howling, long and hollow and filled with grief, the night after Cora died, "Stands in corners and broods a lot. He learned to delegate his stalking to the betas though, so, that was a nice reprieve."

Peter rest a gentle hand on Talia's shoulder and she relaxes into the touch.

"Deaton and I summoned the thing that sent me here," Stiles says, trying to get back on track and keep Talia from rushing out and ripping Kate's heart out of her chest, "It said the fire was never supposed to happen."

"What?" Peter and Talia ask at the same time.

Stiles nods, "Something happened that interfered with it. I guess 2007 is supposed to be a set time or something? It wasn't very clear. My mom gave me some books but they're all in Polish and will probably take me some time to get through but. I don't think we have that much time."

"The next eclipse is in August," Talia says, "We have around five weeks to figure this out."

"I think the solution is pretty obvious," Peter shrugs, "Since whatever this thing was sent Stiles back in time to fix it, I think Stiles is the one that needs to fix it."

Talia and Stiles both turn to stare incredulously at Peter.

He sighs, annoyed, "Think about it. We're werewolves and obviously members of Derek's family. If we start hanging around then she'll know we suspect her and will move her plans up. Derek is, well, you saw how he was with Paige, Talia. He sicked Ennis on the poor girl," Stiles' skin burns in anger to correct him, but he keeps his mouth shut. He'll deal with that later. He'll deal with so much later. Right now he needs to focus on Derek and Kate. "You know what I say about love. If we try to restrict him, he'll just fight harder to see her."

"If you think for one second I'm going to let my son continue to date a hunter hellbent on murdering his family-"

"I'm not saying that. Just continue to be distracted for a few more weeks," Peter says lightly, in that persuading tone he always used to convince Derek of some stupid plan that was usually vetoed out, "Stiles. Do you have any clue how to get rid of this Argent without causing total war?"

Stiles bites his lip and shrugs, "My dad's the Sher-Deputy and she was his teacher. If we can get some proof that they're in a relationship then I could get my mom to tell my dad to arrest her."

Peter nods, "Perfect. See, Talia? Human solutions to human problems."

Talia snorts inelegantly, "Yes, brother, because being systematically hunted by a family of inbred, insane people is exactly what humans go through."

"Has Hills Have Eyes come out yet?" Stiles raises an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

Peter looks like he's trying to hide a smile. Talia just ignores him.

"Right," Talia stands and squares her shoulders, like a military sergeant preparing for battle, "Stiles, do you really think you can do this?"

Stiles really isn't sure, to be honest. He wants to help, and he knows he can definitely catch Kate for being a crazy pedophile, but he kind of really just wants to put a bullet in Kate's head and be done with it.

"I'm sure," He says instead of that though, because he's not sure that it would inspire too much confidence.

His heart must stay steady because Talia nods, resolute. The air is calmer now, no longer cackling with tension. Talia seems more relaxed, like she's one hundred percent certain that Stiles will be able to take care of this. God, he hopes he can take care of this.

"I really can't thank you enough for doing this for us, Stiles," Talia says, and then she's walking around the table to hug him. It's not a very maternal hug, and it's not familiar or comfortable like Laura's was, but it seems to make her feel better so he goes along with it. When she pulls back her face is set in a familiar, neutral expression, one that Derek would use when he was hiding stuff from the pack, "I know you're sacrificing a lot by helping us, and if you ever need anything never be afraid to ask.

"We have a spare room if Deaton's couch ever becomes uncomfortable, and if you need to buy anything just tell Deaton. He has Power of Attorney for the pack account. I need to go have a chat with my husband," She growls the word, "And make sure Laura didn't burn our food. Feel free to stay for dinner."

And then she's gone, striding away like she hadn't been two seconds away from losing control a few minutes ago and closes the door behind her.

"So," Stiles says briskly, turning to look at Peter with a raised eyebrow, "Are we still pretending you're a good guy?"

Peter smirks, small and slow, like he's sharing a secret, "I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, Stiles."

Stiles snorts, "Yeah. Of course you don't. I know your game, Peter, and your ideas are rarely for the benefit of anyone but you. No matter if they actually help, you always have something to gain. Did you forget I come from a place where you were a psychopathic murder monster and turned my best friend into a werewolf?"

And then he freezes, like someone has just thrown him naked in the snow and turns to see Peter, who's full out grinning now. How could he say that? How did he let that slip? No one was supposed to know that Peter became an alpha. He had been meticulous about sparing that detail ever since his first meeting with the Hales.

"Alpha Peter has such a nice ring to it, don't you think, Stiles?" He says, and his eyes flash blue before he's gone and Stiles is in the study alone, not even breathing.

Fuck.

He doesn't know how long he stands there for, silently freaking out. It could either be a minute or an hour, he wouldn't be able to tell, but he only comes back when Laura tugs sharply on his sleeve.

"You okay?" She asks as he stumbles at the force of her pull.

"You need to watch your mom," Stiles says quickly, not even sparing her a hello or a how are you.

Laura just raises an eyebrow, "You know that she's an alpha werewolf, right? It's kinda her job to be pushy and annoying. Trust me."

"No! No, I mean, you need to make sure she isn't alone with Peter."

Laura doesn't even change expressions.

"I may have put an idea in his head that I wasn't supposed to," Stiles explains, feeling like he's going to buzz out of his skin.

"Is this a time travel thing?" She finally asks, but she makes it sound like he's an important spy that just handed her a super secret task that could save the world.

He is so not 007 so he just waves her off, "It might be, yes. Please?"

She stares at him for a few seconds and then nods resolutely. Stiles can't tell if he's more thankful for her not asking questions or for her trust. He thinks it's a combination of both.

"Thank you," He says, and they don't say anymore.

Derek's in the doorway, scowling at them, and grunts, "Dinner's ready. Mom wants to know if you're staying."

Stiles shakes his head. He doesn't think he could eat right now, too busy trying to plan and think. God, he hasn't played chess in years. This is the most important game of his life.

"I need to put some wards around the house," Stiles explains, mentally going through all of the ones he needs. Definitely the fire deterrent ones, "And then I gotta get back to Deaton's and start translating those books."

"Do you even know whatever language they're in?" Laura asks.

"Not really, but it's not like Google Translate is just for desperate high school students, right?"

Derek and Laura just roll their eyes.

By the end of the night, there's an array of wards around the house that light up just for him like the Northern Lights, and Stiles feels more tense than he has in weeks.


	11. Chapter 11

"I'm proud of you," Is the first thing Deaton says to him once they get back to the apartment.

Stiles doesn't respond more than a raised eyebrow and a clenched fist. He feels like he needs to scream, blood tingling under the surface of his skin. He's not proud of himself, and he hates himself for it. He's not like Scott, not like Derek or anyone else in the pack.

It's never been an ultimatum with him, never was. He's not the type to make the martyr play, to sacrifice his life for the safety of others; complete strangers who've never spoken to him. He feels sick, thinking about his pack and how he's condemning to some other future entirely.

How Erica will never laugh freely and sashay her hips up and down the school hallway, smirking as boys and girls drop their books or fumble and stare. Boyd will never smile and lean close and laugh freely, will never know what it's like to not sit alone in a room full of people. Isaac, god, poor, precious, Isaac will be littered with bruises and a father with expectations too high for anyone to reach.

And what about everything else? What about him and his friends and their enemies? It's all up in their from this point on. He thought that by telling Talia, by letting things happen as they should, his life would be easier. Stiles thought he wouldn't feel such a ginormous weight on his shoulders anymore, that he could breath easier and know that everything would be okay.

But it's not okay, not now, not with everything so radically different and unsure. Not with how everything is going to change and he doesn't even know if he'll make it out of this, if he'll even be breathing tomorrow. He doesn't know the rules to this game, never even thought to ask the timekeep what would happen to him.

"I'm not," Stiles mumbles and drops himself onto the couch.

Deaton rest the box of books on the counter, finger trailing along the edge of the opening. Stiles wonders if he wants to dig into them, absorb their knowledge like he has with everything else.

"They're in Polish," He says.

Deaton nods, "My sister and I assumed they would be. Is there anyway your mother would be able to tell you what they say?"

Stiles shrugs, "She might, but I don't know if I could handle going to see her again. Today's been exhausting enough," He grabs one of his dad's shirts and quickly changes into it, smiling slightly when the feel of the worn cotton rubs against his skin. It smells like their detergent and he breathes it in, trying to put himself elsewhere where things were just _easier_. "How'd you know I was there, anyway?"

"Talia called me while you were warding. Impressive work, by the way," Deaton adds, "I couldn't see them, as you know, but I could feel them. I haven't felt that level of protection in years."

"The preserve is really suspectable to magic. It amplifies every rune drawn in there by, like, thirty percent," Stiles tells him, mindlessly opening the box and fingering a book. "I think it was has something to do with the nematon. Speaking of which," He snaps his fingers, instantly being assaulted by yet _another responsibility_. Seriously. Fuck timekeeps. He points a finger at Deaton, his eyes arching unimpressed at the gesture in response, "I need you to help me mix some stuff and not ask any questions about. And then I need you to call some weird little emissary gathering. Everyone you know whose pack knows Talia. That'd be great, thanks."

"Will the course of history be _so_ altered if you tell me what you're planning to do?"

"Probably not, I just like to annoy you."

Deaton hums noncommittally and waves Stiles away. He continues browsing through the books, looking more and more frustrated as time goes on. Stiles, apparently having more self preservation than Deaton, chooses instead to heat himself up a microwavable pizza rather than give himself a headache.

As he waits, he drums his fingers along the counter and hedges, "Talia said you have power of attorney over the pack account?"

"Yes, well, it's the norm for emissaries. Usually each separate member of the pack has their own bank account, and they put a portion of their check into the main account. It's shared by all but to take any money out of the funds, it has to be signed off by either Talia, Randall, or myself. It's usually to pay mortgage, buy cars, provide money for school trips," Deaton looks up at him a strange look on his face, "Things like that. Why?"

He shrugs, "She said I could use it to buy anything I needed and, nothing against you," He tugs at the collar of his shirt, today's was green, "but I'm kind of tired of looking like I'm on my way to a church all the time."

"I offered to buy you your own clothes just last week-"

"Yeah, but," Stiles licks his lips, mouth feeling suddenly dry, "I didn't know I'd be staying long enough to use them then."

Deaton's gaze is intense now, like he's aiming at him to launch a missile right into his face.

Stiles looks away, playing with the button on his cuff, "I know I'm doing the right thing, it's just- I don't know how to accept that I'll never see them again."

"You will see them," Deaton nods, sage-like and soothing as he always is, "Just not as you know them. You'll see them as the people they were supposed to be originally."

"_That's not the same,_" Stiles grinds out, teeth gritted and shoulders tense. "We don't even know what'll happen to me after I stop the fire from happening," He goes back to his food, which finished while he was talking. He takes an aggressive bite out of it, letting the molten cheese set fire to the roof of his mouth. He hardly even feels it, too lost in his thoughts. "What if I just stop existing?"

The question rings throughout the room, and the silence that follows it is thick and heavy. Neither man is willing to break it, and both go to bed with it weighing on their hearts.

* * *

Stiles never really knew how much he missed flannel until he had it back on his body.

"Good God," He moans, rubbing a sleeve against his face.

During the much belated shopping trip, Deaton gets him a prepaid phone. The screen is a weird grayish green with pixelated words and the only way Stiles can think to describe it is bulky and black. It doesn't even flip or take pictures. He may or may not grumble about it the entire time they're at Target, but it has a Tetris demo. (For five whole dollars he can unlock fifty plus bonus levels and save his game! _Super_ fun!) Stiles doesn't think it's a complete failure.

"It's only for emergencies," Deaton warns him before he pays for it and the clothes (six flannels, a bundle of white undershirts, one black v neck, a few pairs of jeans, and some socks and boxers). Stiles feels like a ten year old being allowed to walk home from school for the first time.

He can't text with it, Stiles doesn't even think he would even attempt to, and it only has 60 minutes. _Super_ great! Everything is just _super_!

Stiles barely contains an eye roll, "It's not even a Nokia. You couldn't even get me a_ name brand_ piece of shit phone."

Deaton doesn't comment, but the girl behind the register smiles slightly, like she's holding back a laugh. Stiles counts it a success.

When they get back to the apartment, Stiles walks in through the door, and then promptly backs out of it.

"Deaton," He hisses, eyes narrowed into slits. He crosses his arms over his chest and Deaton just stares passively around him, eying the small cluster of people sitting on whatever furniture there is. Which is to say his bed is completely covered in other peoples' butts. Awesome. "Who are they?"

"The other Druids. I called them like you asked of me last night, remember?"

Stiles adamantly ignores the amused glint in Deaton's eyes, "I didn't say today!"

And he pouts, because he just wanted to _relax_ today. He had Talia calling their cell phone provider to see if they could get a transcript of Derek's call log, and he already had been planning to hack into their system to get the logs of his texts, thank you Danny Mahealani for being worn down enough as long as Stiles stopped asking him if he was attractive, which he couldn't do without Talia's account information which he wouldn't get until he had the call transcripts.

Meaning that there wasn't anything immediate to do today, except mixing up that spell, but that wouldn't take more than a few minutes and it's not like he could even use it until the new moon, which is just ridiculous. Didn't anyone tell the maker of it that all supernatural crap was supposed to fall on the full moon? Whatever.

The point is, his day is ruined by responsibilities. He glares at Deaton, who obviously isn't too concerned with his precious day being stolen from him.

"I don't even know what to say to them," Stiles whines. He wanted to be prepared, dammit. He didn't want a remake of yesterday, of blurting out information he wasn't a hundred percent ready to divulge to Talia and Peter. God, he still had to talk to Talia _about_ Peter. Stiles hates his life.

"You'll be fine," Deaton tells him, nudging him lightly with a bag of clothes. "You know, if you had just told me what to tell them, this whole mess could have been avoided."

He points a finger in the vet's face, feeling like he's being _punished_ for fucks sake, and whispers harshly, "No, that wouldn't have worked at all! Because I know you, and you only share information on an 'oops, too late to help anyone!' basis!"

No matter how kind this past Deaton has been to him, Stiles isn't about to start delegating stuff like this to him. He's had first hand experience on just how much Deaton likes to be the man holding all the cards, and he's not about to let him screw up the future just because of his incessant need to know everything and be mysterious.

Deaton doesn't look affected by his speech at all, "Just go tell them what you need to say. It'll be over shortly. You can do this, Stiles. I have full faith in you."

Stiles rolls his eyes and huffs, but does as Deaton says and walks into the room.

Leah and Jocelyn are there, and both smile kindly at him in unison. He waves back.

"I still haven't been able to find anything on your runes," Jocelyn says apologetically, "From all the resources I've exhausted, it seems that they're completely ordinary."

"It's alright," Stiles says, even though it isn't. It's rare, but sometimes he still reaches for an easy access rune to use it, and comes away only feeling empty and lost. He doesn't mention that though, just shrugs and sits on the coffee table, elbows resting on his thighs. "It doesn't affect my ability to ward or use magic, so I can make do."

The words sound hollow to even him, but no one says anything about it.

Everyone in the picture is there, along with a few other faces. He knows they're all not apart of Deucalion's packs separate packs, since there were only four other alphas in it. He wonders if the twin's pack emissary is here, if he could maybe pull them aside and plead for them to have better treatment maybe?

Once, when he asked Derek about what being an omega in a pack was like, Derek's silent wince was more than enough of a response.

"You already know Jocelyn and Leah," Deaton says, gesturing to the two woman sitting on the edge of the couch. "This is my sister, Marin, and this is Cassandra, Delia, Rhea, Tristan, Amara, and Julia."

His eyes stop on Julia, and he just... stares. She looks almost exactly the same as the Darach, the woman who seduced Derek and ritually sacrificed twelve people. The only real difference is the shape of her nose, and her hair is straight to her mid back rather than curled in ringlets around her face.

It hits him all at once, a sudden explosion in his chest. The way she looked at him, amusement written all over her face, before she kissed his father, the only woman to have done so since his mother passed, and jumped with him out of the classroom window. How she kept him, and Scott's mom and Allison's dad, trapped in a root cellar for days. How she became another reason for Derek to lock himself away, just another person who lied to him and used him and made him an accomplice to murder.

Deaton calls his name and Stiles blanches, not realizing until the fizzling and crackling between his fingers surges up and twist around his arms, sparks of electricity zapping up and around his biceps, that he's lost control. The shirt he's wearing smells like smoke, but he can't even think about it, his anger and hurt so out of control.

He wants to bare his teeth at her, like a wolf, wants to grab her and run the current through her body, make her feel every ounce of pain she inflicted plus some. But he doesn't. He reigns himself in, pulls taught on his magic until it's locked away and his skin is just smooth flesh once again.

Julia just raises an eyebrow at him, seeming unimpressed. It just makes him want to hurt her even more.

"Are you going to do that every time we come over, Stiles?" Leah smirks at him. Jocelyn grins too, but hers is friendly instead of snide, as opposed to her sister.

"Sorry," Stiles lies, finally looking away from Julia. He shucks off his flannel, internally bemoaning the loss of the plaid as soon as he got it, until he's standing in the room in nothing but a white undershirt. "You just looked like someone who wasn't really a good person."

Tristan eyes the tattoos on his biceps, nodding silently as he takes them in. Stiles can see a few in actual ink run along the ridge of his neck, curling behind his ear and disappearing into his wiry hair.

Deaton, Jocelyn, Marin, and Leah all share a look, silently communicating with twitching eyes and raised eyebrows.

"Stiles specializes in protection magic," Deaton says to Julia, who is still leaning back against the couch in an ease that makes Stiles want to punch her. He has to try to remind himself that she hasn't done anything yet, that she's a victim of what Duecalion has planned too, but it's really hard when she's sitting a foot from him. "Forgive him for anymore brash gestures."

"Are you his mentor, Alan?" Tristan asks, smiling when he looks at Stiles, "If not, I would love to take such a powerful spark under my wing."

"A born spark and a time traveler. If my brother _weren't_ training him, you can bet I would have stolen him already," Morrell smirks, leaning her head in that way she does while he wide eyes look at Stiles in a way that makes him feel like he's back in her office, talking about Matt. Like she's seeing inside of his head and pulling out every secret he keeps. "It's bad form to proposition so publicly, Tristan. I thought you, of all of us, would know that."

"That girl moved an entire Oak tree from the ground and put it through the chest of a troll!" Tristan defends, "It wasn't my fault for seeing an opportunity and taking it."

Deaton crosses his arms in front of his chest, "Yes, and you never thought that with a spark so well lit she didn't have an _incredibly_ powerful mentor?"

Jocelyn leans across the table, ignoring the bickering above her head, and whispers to Stiles, "He ended up with a snake tongue and pig tail for a year. You don't steal one's prodigy, it is law."

"And he's lucky he got away with just that," Leah snorts, "If someone had tried to steal my Martin from me when he was still learning, I would have took their hand."

Stiles really doesn't know what to do with that information.

He clears his throat, and the banter above him cuts off, "I only know for sure that I need to talk to emissary of Deucalion, Ennis, and Kali." Marin, Leah, and Julia all sit up a bit straighter and share a look, "And if any of you have a pack with a pair of twins that can morph into this giant werewolf, you'd probably be great to talk to too."

Rhea sighs and switches positions on the couch, hooking a leg over Delia's knee. Delia doesn't seem to notice or mind the gesture, "What trouble do those two get into now? I swear, ever since Ronan took pity on them and allowed them into the pack, they've done nothing but be a nuisance."

"Anyway," He coughs, and then looks at Marin. Her face is hard, like she already knows what he's going to tell her, and she probably does. Jocelyn did say that Deucalion hadn't allowed anyone else but her in the room since Gerard took his eyesight. She's probably been talking him down from this for months. "When he killed his beta out of defense, Deucalion realized that if an alpha kills a member of their pack, they absorb their power. In my time, he gets Ennis, Kali, and the twins to do this too."

Julia glares at him, here eyes hard and glowing faintly under her iris, "Kali would never do such a thing! She's a good alpha. She cares for each member of the pack like they're her own children! I've never seen an alpha besides Talia with that much devotion."

"Right. And I'm sure she isn't in love with a morally ambiguous guy like Ennis, huh?" Stiles raises an eyebrow, eyes jumping from Leah's shocked face to Julia's. He's practically begging for Julia to hit him. He wants to attack her back. It doesn't matter if she's more experienced, Stiles has pure rage flowing through him. Revenge is always stronger than righteous anger, right?

The only one who doesn't look surprised is Morrell, who's wearing a carefully blank mask. Stiles wonders how long she's suspected this, if, when he lets her in his room to rant and rave at her, Deucalion's let his plan slip.

"How do we avoid this?" Rhea asks, although she looks bored rather than interested. Stiles should probably tell her to not underestimate Ethan and Aiden as much as she is, but he doesn't think he will.

"I don't know," Stiles shrugs. It's not like he can tell them to do what they did, run around uselessly until a Darach shows up and helps take the "alpha of alphas" down on the lunar eclipse. "Aren't you guys supposed to know how to deal with power hungry assholes?"

"Our job within the pack is to keep balance," Deaton says, "We advise the alpha and they take our opinion into account."

Stiles makes a face, "That's completely helpful. Great job, guys."

Morrell throws her hair over a shoulder and crosses her legs, "Don't listen to Alan. Not all of us run things how he does." Deaton gives her a tired look, like this has been a long standing argument, "I will handle Deucalion. By tomorrow night, he won't be a problem. I'll send my new alpha to meet with Talia to reinstate the treaty before the week is over."

The other emissaries look at Marin like she's an alien, stunned more by her casual coup against her alpha than the knowledge of the alpha pack. Tristan scoots away from her and brings his arm to his side, no longer leaving it around her shoulders.

Morrell sighs, "Above all, we are supposed to keep the pack safe. That, at the end of the day, is our job. Not to be therapist for our alphas. Not to handle finances. We protect. We watch." She looks around at each of them, eyes settling on Stiles. Her eyes glow white for a few seconds, and then fade back to brown, "We do."


	12. Chapter 12

Stiles is really surprised it takes him so long to find his way to the computer.

He hasn't seen a tower attached to a monitor in what feels like years. It whirls when he turns it on and there's a truly obnoxious Windows Vista background that greets him. Stiles doesn't manage to not roll his eyes. It takes a full five minutes to turn on and he has to click out of instant messengers and anti virus software aggressively telling him to update his subscription.

Stiles really isn't surprised to see a Zoo Tycoon icon hover above the start button. He fights the urge to click on it and send Deaton's zoo into debt. He's not a horrible person, after all, but it does make him feel nostalgic for his old Roller Coaster Tycoon game. Maybe he'll have to break in to his old bedroom and steal it. It's certainly a thought.

He clicks on Mozilla Firefox, groaning at the orange figure and mumbling under his breath in a silent prayer for Google to make Chrome soon.

The AT&T website is just as unuserfriendly as it is in his time. He easily logs in with Talia's account information and from there, it's relatively easy to use the skills Danny taught him to bypass their security measures. He sends out a bug, one specified to track down Derek's text, and sits back and relaxes.

He's braiding as he works, intertwining strands of string dipped in diluted fox blood. It's actually less disgusting than it sounds, if anyone can believe that. The charm is supposed to cover his scent and heartbeat, letting him sneak around without being disturbed. Alternatively, his camouflage and deception runes would work better.

But. Well. That's still a moot point.

So he's stuck with the old fashioned way, moving strands and knots into place until it makes a necklace. The first time he made one, it sucked at his magic until he had to sleep for fifteen hours to feel normal. He's better now, though, and thinks he'll only have to take an hour nap to work this off.

It's still not as good as his runes. But. Again. Point, meet moot.

There are also oils he could use at his pulse points, which Lydia always favored since his charms would always "clash with [her] outfits", but they can be sweated off with the smallest amount of excursion and left him smelling like he just got a happy ending from a masseuse.

Not fun for any party involved.

The timer on the stove goes off at the same time that he knots the necklace finished. He lays it on the keyboard and pops into the kitchen, nose squinting at the smell of over cooked eggs.

He ladles portions of the luck potion into glass vials, corking them carefully.

Stiles has been cooking all morning, mixing ingredients and words into a brew. He's never been the best at potion making, since that was more Lydia's forte and she just had him will his belief into it whenever the directions said so, but there's no Lydia here. Just him. And he can follow a simple set of instructions, right?

If not, then the worst thing that'll happen is that the coven of witches will laugh him out f the store.

Ah, well, he's no stranger to humility.

When he's finished, he dumps the bottles into a bag and turns off the burners, cleans up his mess, and the one Deaton left from breakfast this morning, that pig, and hangs the bag off the back of a chair. He puts his charm in there too, just in case he runs into anyone he wants to avoid when he goes out.

He gets back to the computer and checks his bug, getting unnecessarily angry when he sees it's still fiddling around. Danny would have it done by now, he can't help but think. If Danny were here, they would have nailed Kate like a fly days ago.

Instead, Stiles has been sitting around Deaton's apartment like a worthless pile of sludge. Laura's come by a few times and they watched a Harry Potter movie on ABC family. It was Sorcerer's Stone, but still. Good stuff. He was also pretty shocked to find out that she's a Potterhead, says she's Gryffindor, and actually had the nerve to laugh at him defending Hufflepuff.

Stiles misses the future, where Hufflepuff pride is proud and respected.

He dicks around on Paint for a few minutes, making a Dracula out of circles and coloring it in all purple, before he opens up a new tab and types in facebook almost instinctively.

Except, it doesn't take him to the familiar log in page he could say by heart.

It's-

It's ugly. That's the only way to describe it. It's pixelated with a dark shade of blue and poorly placed squares and a really lame font. There's a picture of Mark Zuckerberg near the sign up button, and who puts a picture of themselves on their own website? It tells him he needs a college email to make an account and-

Stiles thinks he's going to be sick, because if he's in a time where facebook isn't cool looking and popular then that means-

It means-

He hates himself for doing it, but he has to be sure.

He types in without even looking, cringing when a fully functioning and familiar log in page pops up.

Stiles is going to drown himself.

His curiosities been piqued now, and he doesn't even think before he does it; Googles "Laura Hale myspace" and hits enter before he even knows he's doing it.

And of course she has one. The profile picture is her, with icing covering her cheeks and mouth. She's smiling, head thrown back in a laugh, and arms hooked around a guy covered in equal amounts of frosting. Stiles thinks he must be Brad, going by how his lips are pressed against her frosting covered cheek.

Her background is black and has some rock band he doesn't know stretched unseemly behind transparent boxes. And there's auto play music.

Stiles has never hit the mute button so fast in his life and immediately reminds himself to make fun of Laura for her poor music taste the next time he sees her.

"**hey i'm laura! i'm 18 and just graduated BHHS :) :) :) my family means the world to me and my friends are a close second! **

**xoxoxo i love going to the beach and nature is my fave. if ur ever going camping, hmu!"**

The world is dead as he knows it.

Her comments are filled with horrible grammar and people saying that they're going to miss her, asking her what college she's going to, and just friends trading clip art and inside jokes. Stiles feels skived out when he hits what seems to be a love letter from Brad and quickly scrolls up.

Her friends list only has ten people, and Stiles gets war flashbacks of people fighting over being in someone's top 5. A shudder rips through him. Oh god, the battles that were waged in cyberspace to be listed in order of importance. Stiles is pretty sure Scott cried when he forgot to move him up to his top 5 once.

Junior High was a horrible time.

While he's bemoaning his childhood warfare, he spots a familiar face in the friendslist.

It's Derek's face. Of course it is, because the world is out to ruin every and all perceptions of Derek Hale that Stiles has.

Just. The mere idea of Derek Hale having a myspace, one that he actively uses, is enough to send Stiles into a fit of hysterics. He wishes his Derek was here so he could point at this and laugh, because holy shit that is beautiful. Derek's expression would be priceless.

Stiles ignores the dull ache in his chest and clicks on the picture of a smiling Derek Hale.

The background is black. That's not surprising to anyone. There isn't even anything written in his about me, or in any of the other boxes meant to outline his personality to strangers. He doesn't even have a top 5, just a blue link with an arrow saying 'Click to See Derek's friends list!'. Stiles does not click to see Derek's friends list.

His last log in was months ago, which Stiles whistles lowly at. It isn't until he scrolls down more, that he realizes why.

There are hundreds upon hundreds of comments. All of them have some variation of apologizing for losing Paige, saying RIP with small, error riddled eulogies with a character limit.

'i kno she made u happy bro

i'm sorry'

Stiles feels uncomfortable, knowing full well that Derek would knock him into a wall and glare at him for looking at his, and scrolls away.

He clicks on the pictures, hoping to find something embarrassing of Derek to get his mind off the blaring 'Paige! Paige! Paige!' trip it's on.

And-

Is that-

There's a picture of Derek, arms flung around the shoulders of other guys on his swim team. His hair is slicked back and wet, dripping rivets of water down his face and neck, curling against his collar bones. Some of the more ambitious drops have rolled all the way to the waistband of his blue speedo, plastering hair to his thick, muscular thighs and Stiles-

Stiles stares at it for a second too long, breath caught in his throat because he's seen Derek naked before, of course he has, but that was different. He was always bloody and half dead and growling because he had just shifted out of alpha form, always trapped in his feral mind set for just a few more minutes, but this is completely and utterly and hopelessly different because he's happy and smiling and god, his arms may look softer and his abs are less defined but-

Stiles quickly clicks back to his profile page, but the image of Derek almost naked burns in his mind, and he licks his lips almost unconsciously, mouth suddenly dry and throat tighter than it was a few seconds ago. It's the first time he's been anywhere near hard since he traveled back, his mind always too focused on other things and freaking out to even consider the idea of being turned on.

It isn't like he never got morning wood, just that remembering all of the shit he had to do was usually a boner killer.

His hand flexes, dick jumping in his pants as the image of Derek pops in his mind again. It's not like he's never beat off to Derek before. He's a person and Derek just so happens to need to take his shirt off a lot. It's never bothered the guy before, even considering the weird phase he went through where he couldn't look Derek in the eye for a week after he woke up sticky after a dream of Derek licking his shoulder. God, his dick is so weird.

And it's not like Derek ever minded. He would just roll his eyes if he ever scented his arousal. Derek, for all his issues, knew he was attractive and worked it. Of course, with his extensive history, Stiles had always been concerned about how easily Derek could smile or flex an arm at someone to win them over.

'It's about power,' Derek had said when Stiles was drunk enough to talk to him about it once, 'I'm never going to let anyone use me against myself again.'

But this feels different, like he's crossing some unspoken line. He's met Derek's mom, for fucks sake. You can't jack off to somebody once their mom's hugged you. It's like, a law. And it would just be really fucking weird to do it, knowing that he's out there right now with Kate of all people and-

Stiles is an eighteen year old boy. He has long ago learned, through many trials of public humiliation and awkward danger boners, that there is absolutely no way to reason with his dick.

He quickly shuts down the computer and goes to take a shower, only feeling a little bad about it.

* * *

There is a shop in Beacon Heights run by a small coven. They've lived there for fifteen years, managing a run down shop to act as a safe house for supernatural.

A warlock had stumbled into Beacon Hills once and put love spells on twelve people, causing absolute chaos.

Of course, when he found out werewolves were after him, he ran away to the coven who readily defended one of their own. When Stiles and Lydia explained the situation to them, how ever, the ideas of what they did to him still makes Stiles twitch uncomfortably.

Today, there's a woman with bleached dreadlocks and thick rimmed glasses laying on the counter, a book levitating above her face. A finger twitches and the page turns, revealing a large picture of a girl tied to a stake. There are tears running down her face, but her mouth is twisted into a feral grin.

"Don't worry," The girl says, head flopped back to stair at him, upside down, "She gets away. I don't know why they ever thought ropes could hold a witch, but, whatever."

She sniffs and rolls to her feet, sending the book behind the desk with a flick of her wrist. The last time he was here, an old lady greeted him with a sour expression. She had made some colorful remarks about sparks, somethings that still grate on Stiles' nerves, but had helped never the less. Her movements were calm and rigid, controlled in a way that looked almost unnatural.

The girl in front of him is loose with her magic, smirking at him as she juts her chin and pulls up a ledger.

"I heard the ones that got burned were all sparks," Stiles tells her, walking deeper into the store. He runs his hands across a pack of raven feathers, letting the soft touch soothe him, "We never get proper credit in history books."

"At least you don't get bastardized on Samhain."

Stiles rolls his eyes, already well aware of the witches rights groups that go around trying to ban costumes with ugly green faces and pointed hats. When Lydia was trying to figure out what being a Banshee meant, she had dragged him to a couple of supernatural support groups up North.

There, he learned stuff to help fill the pack Bestiary. He also learned the inherent difference between sparks and witches, how all witches areborn magic, and all sparks have the opportunity to become it. Sparks are a dying breed, since the gene is only passed on if their magic settles before they have children.

Witches have natural affinities and powers that they build upon, but most can't do rituals or spells to save their lives. The voo doo magic is mainly left to the sparks, who can mix together aconite and salt without getting third degree burns. Sparks are also limited to runes and wards, which is why most are covered in tattoos like he is.

A spark can also pass on their magic to another through a really complicated ritual, which is how most modern day sparks are made. Morrell, Deaton, his mom, her family, and himself are the only sparks he knows for sure who were born with it.

According to Deaton, it's not considered polite to ask.

"I really don't think you get how awesome it would be to be bastardized, dude."

The girl rolls her eyes, "Says the oh-so privileged spark." She makes a grabby motion with her hands and then snaps her fingers together.

Stiles feels a tug and suddenly, the white paper he had hastily written on is folded up in her hand.

"Sulphate powder, Calamaris root, Saltpeter, Hyssop herb, Dandelion leaves, and Witches salt," She reads aloud, face twisted into an unpleasant expression. Her mouth works quickly as she reads the list again, Stiles shifting uneasily from side to side. He had seriously over estimated Deaton's stock and had raided both the closet at the apartment, and the room in the clinic, but neither had everything he needed.

Deaton had just shrugged when he threw empty bottles at his feet, saying that he only did a major restock in December.

The girl eyes him over her glasses, one thin eyebrow quirked at him, "Quite a list you got here. And little me, only a level three, has no idea what you're making." She steps closer to him, folding the list carefully between her fingers, "Just what are you up to?"

"Leave him alone, Jenna," A voice says before a figure slinks around the corner. She's tall and dark skinned, hair in a long braid down her back. There are strands of braided string interwoven, with bells and feathers here and there. Her heals click against the linoleum as she walks forward and swipes the list from Jenna's hand, "I put you out here to work, not cause trouble."

Jenna rolls her eyes, "It was just a simple question. Kendra makes conversation and she doesn't get in trouble."

"That's because Kendra still manages to get her work done," The woman hands the list back to her, "Go get the young man what he needs. I'll deal with the exchange."

Jenna makes an exaggerated huff but takes the list and, with a quick smile at Stiles, disappears between shelves. He can hear her mumbling to herself and bottles moving, but the woman in front of him quickly steals away his attention.

"You belong to Deaton, right?"

"When you put it like that I sound like his slave, but yeah. He's my mentor." Stiles shrugs and steps closer to the counter. He hooks the messenger bag over his shoulder and onto the counter, the bottles inside clinging against each other lightly at the motion, "What's it gonna cost me?"

He's never made a deal this big before, the last time he was here he only bought some oils and candles for a protection spell. Currency between sparks and witches are trade, mostly. Witches don't normally own stores like this, but the nearest spark owned one is in Washington and he's so not driving there. Deaton would literally kill him for all of the gas.

He doesn't know how much everything will be and brought some bottles of Lady Luck, Solumn Wisdom, Fear Nots, and some Van Van's just in case. Deaton had told him it wouldn't be anywhere near that much, but he lives to be prepared.

It's a really weird, complicated, capitalistic system, but it's worked so far. The witches enchant the items, and the sparks pay them in spells and wards. The two don't mingle often, but there hasn't been any bad blood between the two groups since the witch trials.

The woman grins, teeth too bright and eyes wide, "How about everything in your satchel, including that scent charm, and I even repair your arms for free."

Stiles blanks, arms tensing at his sides, "My what?"

His voice is little more than a croak, but it gets the point across.

Mysterious lady just grins at him, "Your arms. Your marks have been leached of their magic, correct? Whatever did that must have been starving. You obviously lived to tell the tale, though. Jenna's always up for a good story, aren't you dear?"

A voice mumbles something in return, and Stiles feels like he's left out of some inside joke.

Starving? What did that even mean? Stiles' arms itch at the mention of them and the woman motions for him to remove his flannel. He does so with a skeptical eye, mind still on the whole starving part of her sentence. What? The timekeep seemed perfectly healthy- okay, maybe not mentally but it was fine enough physically, when he called it the other day.

Nails run up his arm, crook around his elbow and trace a gentle pattern against the rubber feeling skin. Her eyes close and her entire body tenses, Stiles' following suit instinctively. It hits him a second later and he almost screams, biting into the skin of his lips and breathing out harshly through his nose.

It's like someone took twenty knives and stabbed them into each inch of skin at the same time. It burns worse than anything he ever felt in his life, even when Deaton carefully chipped away and pealed back his skin to make the scars.

What feels like hours later, the feeling leaves as suddenly as it appears. His skin is pale and clammy, arms and legs jittery and weak. His stomach churns, head pounding, and he feels like he could collapse at any minute.

Despite that, though, Stiles has never felt more alive in his entire life.

Warmth spends throughout his entire arms, running in his veins and leaking into his muscles. It curves around his shoulders and down his sides, following the trail of runes imbedded into his skin. His entire body feels like it's humming, high on whatever the woman did to him.

Someone pushes a glass of water in front of him and he inhales it eagerly.

"It's usually better without the warning," The woman says with a shrug. She has a paper bag next to her and his satchel has mysteriously disappeared from the table. Jenna's gone, her book missing and the store silent save for the woman smiling kindly at him.

"What did you do to me?" Stiles asks, breathless. He can't tell if he's happy or not, too much pain and warmth inside of him at once. He might pass out from the whiplash sooner than the pain.

"I healed you," She shrugs, nudging the bag closer to him. Stiles reaches a weak arm over and looks inside of it, finding his flannel folded up atop small bags and bottles of everything he asked for. "Consider it a favor, for all you're sacrificing to keep the supernatural world in balance."

His head snaps up quickly, eyes wide and mouth open, but there's no one else in the store but him.

The hair on the back of his neck stands, arms exploding in goosebumps as a gentle chill rolls down his spine. Stiles grabs the bag and quickly leaves.

* * *

Notes:

If you care (which you probably don't I mean srsly this is boring)

SULPHUR POWDER is a naturally occurring mineral dust and can be mixed with Salt and then sprinkled or laid down to help clear and clean out an area of negative spell work

CALAMUS ROOT, also known as SWEET FLAG, is used by those who wish to control a situation or to dominate a specific person.

HYSSOP HERB is a purification herb for cleansing yourself or your hme, to put an end to crossed conditions, to take off a jinx, or break a hex.

DANDELION can be drunk as tea or carried in a bag to enhance psychic dreams and second sight.

BASIL is a sacred herb used for peace and happiness at home.

SALTPETER is often mixed with two other minerals to make a Sprinkling Powder. One very popular mixture consists of a teaspoon of SALTPETER, a cup of SALT, and a tablespoon of POWDERED BLUEING to help remove negative influences and for Spiritual Cleaning.

WITCHES' SALT, also known as Black Salt, is a mixture of Salt and Charcoal, Salt and Iron Pot Scrapings, Salt and Black Pepper, or Salt that has been dyed black and is used to drive away evil, or to make an enemy leave you alone.


End file.
